THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  COLLECTION  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINIANA 

ENDOWED  BY 

JOHN  SPRUNT  HILL 

CLASS  OF  1889 


CB 

H523fl 


00032193545 

This  book  must  not 
be  taken  from  the 
Library  building. 


laiS  IITLE  HAS 


Form  No.   471 


BEEN  MICROFILIV  ED 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING; 

An  Art  or  a  Trade? 


SHORT  STORY- WRITING 

An  Art  or  a  Trade? 

by 

N.  BRYLLION  FAGIN 

Dean  of  the  School  of  Literary  Arts,  Research  Uni- 
versity, Washington,  D.  C,  and  instructor  in  Short 
Story  Writing,   University  of  Maryland. 


W 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER,  INC. 

1923 


Copyright,    1923,    by 
THOMAS    SELTZER,    I^X. 


All   Bights    Reserved 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OP    AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     Overture       .......         1 


II     Action 12 

III  *'0.  Henryism'^    ......  29 

IV  The  Moving  Pictures  ....  48 
V    Verboten 67 

VI  The  Artificial  Ending     .      .      .  101 

VII  Form  and  Substance     ....  114 

VIII     Finale 125 

IX    Effect 132 

Index 137 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING: 

An  Art  or  a  Trade? 


CHAPTER  I 

Overture 

Moods  may  be  uncomfortable,  and  sad,  and  pain- 
fully disturbing,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  make 
pleasant  music  occasionally.  Here  I  sit  in  the  dusk, 
looking  out  Into  the  street  that  is  ordinarily  so 
familiar  to  me,  but  has  suddenly  become  blurred  and 
weirdly  mysterious  in  the  gathering  murk.  A  veil 
is  over  my  eyes,  which  see  the  familiar  houses  across 
the  street,  the  young  poplars  In  front  of  them,  the 
few  passers-by.  But  my  mind  does  not  discern 
these  objects;  It  sees  far  subtler  things — floating, 
flimsy,  evanescent.  The  dusk  is  in  my  mind,  evok- 
ing thoughts.  Illusions,  pictures — and  speaking, 
questioning,  singing.  The  dusk  is  an  overture  to 
the  things  I  have  set  out  to  say,  playing  innumer- 
able variations  of  my  theme,  whispering  in  every 
note:  "Stories,  Stories,  Stories!" 

There  as  so  many  stories  afloat  in  the  world  I 
Every  door  and  window  and  curtain  and  shade  has 
a  story  to  tell;  every  clod  and  tree  and  leaf;  and 
every  pebble  of  a  human  being  washed  by  the  waves 
of  life.  And  how  many  of  these  stories  have  I 
helped  to  be  told?     And  how  many  have  I  helped 

1 


2  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

to  be  maimed,  mutilated  of  soul?  Yes,  and  how 
many  have  I  helped  to  kill? 

For  I  have  been  teaching,  for  a  number  of  years, 
the  "Technique  of  Short  Story-Writing,"  and  my 
guidance  and  judgment  have  meant  life  and  death 
to  countless  stories  born  in  the  breasts  and  minds 
of  trustful  people.  I  have  been  the  great  discour- 
ager and  encourager  of  genius  and  quasi-genius, 
and  I  know  my  hands  are  not  without  stain  of  liter- 
ary blood. 

I  am  not  reproaching  myself.  Among  the  many 
hundreds  of  men  and  women  who  derive  their 
daily  bread  and  clothes  and  gasohne  by  directing 
the  story-fancy  of  the  country's  million  or  more 
literary  aspirants,  I  class  myself  among  the  most 
conscientious  and  least  harmful.  The  share  of  in- 
jury I  may  have  contributed  has  simply  been  the 
unavoidable  accompaniment  of  being  engaged  in  a 
profession  grounded  upon  the  popular  belief  that 
literature  is  a  trade,  like  plumbing,  or  tailoring,  or 
hod-carrying,  and  requires  but  an  understanding  of 
the  stupendous  emoluments  involved  and  a  will  to 
learn.  That  it  is  in  the  interests  of  the  profession 
to  foster  and  perpetuate  this  popular  belief  needs 
no  elaborate  substantiation.  But  that  the  belief 
itself  should  be  based  on  a  measure  of  solid  truth 
is  a  sardonic  phenomenon  calling  for  enlightening 
discussion. 

Professor   Arlo    Bates   in    one    of   his    talks   on 


OVERTURE  3 

writing  English  once  said:     "Given  a   reasonable 
intelligence   and  sufficient  patience,   any  man  with 
the  smallest  gifts  may  learn  to  write  at  least  mar- 
ketable stuff,   and  may  earn  an  honest  livelihood, 
if  he  studies  the  taste  of  the  least  exacting  portion 
of  the  public,    and   accommodates   himself   to   the 
whim  of  the  time."      It  is  the  business  of  my  pro- 
fession to  dedicate  its  services  to  the  promotion  of 
the  production  of  this  "marketable  stuff,"  and  to 
elevate  its  own  calling  it  has  blatantly  labeled  this 
product   as   "Hterature."     With   this   end   in   view 
numerous  textbooks  have  been  written,  thousands 
of  magazine  articles  have  been  pubhshed,  and  mil- 
lions of  copies  of  pamphlets  and  other  advertising 
matter    distributed    broadcast    over    the    country. 
The    magic    slogan    is    "Writers    are    made — not 
born!"     Then  follows  a  "heart-to-heart"  talk  on 
the  advantages  of  a  literary  career,  and  the  flour- 
ishing of  some  dozen  notable  successes,  measured 
in  formidable  numbers  of  dollars  received,  usually 
headed  by  Jack  London  and  ending  with   Fannie 
Hurst   or   some    still   more    recent    "arrival,"    and 
finally  concluding  with  the  weighty  query,  explicitly 
propounded  or  subtly  implied:     "Why  aren't  you 
a  story  writer?" 

The  young  man  or  young  woman  just  out  of  the 
gray  portals  of  some  fresh-water  college  and  not 
knowing  what  to  turn  to  next,  or  the  insipid  clerk 
dreaming   over   his  ledger,    or   her   typewriter,    of 


4  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

some  Tyltyl  cap  thus  suddenly  comes  Into  possession 
of  a  startling  Idea.  Why  not  be  a  story  writer? 
The  work  does  not  seem  hard;  compensation  is  said 
to  be  good;  and  one  Is  master  of  one's  own  time 
and  destiny.  The  would-be  casts  his  lot  on  the  side 
of  practical  reasoning,  pays  in  a  sum  of  money  to 
a  school  of  fiction-writing  or  enrolls  for  a  course 
with  one  of  our  universities,  buys  a  typewriter  on 
the  installment  plan,  and  begins  to  collect  editorial 
rejection  slips.  When  the  course  is  completed  an- 
other one  is  taken  up,  perhaps  with  another  school, 
thus  crediting  all  lack  of  achievement  to  the  insuf- 
ficiency or  inefficiency  of  the  instruction  received  so 
far,  and  the  typewriter  continues  to  click  and  the 
periodic  comings  of  the  postman  are  again  awaited 
eagerly;  for  hadn't  a  major  part  of  the  instruction 
been  devoted  to  the  inculcation  of  the  conviction  that 
the  world  Is  exceedingly  tardy  in  extending  its 
acknowledgment  of  genius?  Why,  think  of  Jack 
London;  read  his  "Martin  Eden" — biographical, 
you  know.  Then,  Masefield,  dishwashing  In  New 
York,  and  returning  to  England  to  become  the  fore- 
most poet  of  the  day;  and  Maupassant  working 
away  at  his  little  masterpieces  for  seven  long  years 
before  even  venturing  to  bring  them  before  the  cold 
light  of  the  unappreciatlve  world;  and  Kipling, 
knocking  about  the  streets  of  New  York  with  his 
wonderful  Indian  stories  In  his  pockets  and  no 
editor  or  publisher  willing  to  look  at  them;  and 


OVERTURE  S 

Knut  Hamsun,  working  as  a  common  farm  hand  in 
North  Dakota,  and  later  as  a  common  conductor 
collecting  fares  on  a  Chicago  street-car  line,  finally 
returning  to  his  native  Norway  to  fame  and  fortune 
and,  ultimately,  to  a  Nobel  prize  in  literature. 
Then  think  of  our  own  more  recent  story  writers — 
Hergesheimer,  writing  away  in  obscurity  for  four- 
teen years;  Fannie  Hurst,  submitting  thirty-five 
stones  to  one  periodical  and  succeeding  with  the 
thirty-sixth — and  now  receiving  $1800  for  every 
short  story  she  writes,  you  know — etc.,  etc. 

Fully  ninety  per  cent,  never  do  succeed  and 
finally  become  discouraged  and  drop  out  of  the 
ranks.  Of  the  other  ten  per  cent,  many  live  to  see 
their  names  in  print  over  a  story  or  poem  or  article 
in  some  obscure  periodical,  while  a  few  ultimately 
become  our  best  sellers  and  their  names  adorn  the 
conspicuous  pages  in  our  most  popular  fiction  peri- 
odicals. Among  the  ninety  per  cent,  are  the  hope- 
lessly incompetent,  with  a  sprinkling  of  artistic 
idealists  who  utterly  fail  to  accommodate  them- 
selves to  the  taste  of  the  public  and  the  whim  of 
the  time.  Among  the  ten  per  cent,  are  the  keen, 
shrewd,  practical  craftsmen  who  are  able  to  get  at 
the  spirit  of  the  literary  mart.  To  the  chosen  ones 
among  these  comes  the  adulation  of  the  populace 
and  the  golden  shekels  blazing  a  glittering  path 
across  the  pages  of  special  feature  articles  in  our 
Sunday   newspapers.     And   these    are   the   writers 


6  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

who  justify  my  profession  in  spreading  the  gospel 
that  one  needs  but  a  will  to  learn  to  achieve  a  suc- 
cessful literary  career. 

If,  with  some  such  unpopular  fellow  as  Nietzsche, 
we  should  rise  to  a  sublime  pinnacle  of  contemp- 
tuous detachment,  we  might  say  that  the  ninety  per 
cent,  of  failures  do  not  deserve  our  pity.  It  is  best 
for  a  fighting,  competitive  world  that  weaklings 
and  incompetents  are  failures.  We  might  even  say 
that  the  few  artistic  idealists  among  them  deserve 
no  better.  Life  is  a  process  of  adaptation  and  com- 
promise and,  among  men,  a  pair  of  sturdy  legs  are 
of  greater  utility  than  a  pair  of  feeble  wings. 
Perhaps  there  is  a  stern  justice  in  the  fate  of  a 
Chatterton  or,  say,  a  Frangois  Villon.  But  is  it 
not  equally  possible  that  by  the  grim,  whimsical 
jugglings  of  the  gods  a  mist  may  sometimes  en- 
velop the  battlefield  of  men,  such  let  us  say,  as 
brought  confusion  to  the  last  hordes  of  the  noble 
Arthur,  when 

". .  .friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist, 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew; 

and   in  the  mist 

Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 
And   chance    and    craft..."? 

Verily,  such  a  "death-white"  mist  does  envelop 
our  literary  battlefield,  and,  in  the  confusion,  my 
profession,  supported  by  the  vast  majority  of 
editors  and  professional  critics,  is  aiding  the  weak 
to  conquer  the  strong.     Blinded  by  the  mist,  we  aid 


OVERTURE  7 

aspirants  to  rise  to  power  by  craft  and  cunning,  and 
when  they  emerge  to  reign  for  a  single  day  we 
crown  them,  thus  contributing  to  the  future  nothing 
but  the  dust  of  our  petty  kings.  Those  who  would 
reign  for  centuries  are  jeered  at,  discouraged,  van- 
quished. 

A  dozen  names  leap  to  mind — pathetic  examples 
of  great  talent  forced  to  decay,  of  great  sincerity 
diluted  and  polluted,   of  noble   fires   extinguished. 
But  of  all  these  names  the  two  most  pregnant  with 
tragedy  are  those  of  Mark  Twain  and  Jack  London. 
The    author   of    "Huckleberry    Finn"    and    "Tom 
Sawyer,"  deep,  penetrating,  cynical,  was  obliged  to 
play  the  amusing  clown  until  the  end.     The  author 
of  "The  Call  of  the  Wild"   and  "Martin  Eden" 
until  his  dying  breath  continued  to  fill  his  lucrative 
contracts   with    popular    claptrap.     If   no    one    in 
particular  can  be  blamed,  the  sickly  light  shining 
upon  our  literary  firmament  must  take  responsibil- 
ity.    There  are   formative  years  when  a  writer's 
talent    matures,    mellows,    is    molded.      The    atti- 
tude of  the  populace  and,  above  all,  of  the  oracles 
on   the  mountains   and  in  the   temples   is   eagerly 
watched  and  heeded.     In  the  case  of  Jack  London 
the  influence  of  this  attitude  as  a  determining  factor 
in  the  evolution  of  his  career  is  a  matter  of  record. 
One  of  the  editors  of  The  Seven  Arts,  a  monthly 
magazine  that  was  too  lofty  of  purpose  and  too 
pure  of  policy  to  continue  existence,  once  invited 


8  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

Jack  London  to  submit  any  stories  he  might  have 
that  had  failed  of  acceptance  with  the  popular  mag- 
azines because  of  lack  of  adaptation.  London's 
reply  was  that  no  such  stories  existed,  and  concluded 
with  a  statement  that  explains  very  ingenuously  the 
melancholy  disillusionment  that  pervades  the  best 
of  his  work.  "I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  he  wrote, 
"that  had  the  United  States  been  as  kindly  toward 
the  short  story  writer  as  France  has  always  been 
kindly,  from  the  beginning  of  my  writing  career  I 
would  have  written  many  a  score  of  short  stories 
quite  different  from  the  ones  I  have  written."^ 
It  is  clear,  of  course,  to  what  particular  brand  of 
kindliness  London  had  reference.  For  the  United 
States  is  kindly  toward  the  short  story  writer,  very 
kindly  indeed.  It  was  kindly  toward  Jack  London 
— but  not  in  the  way  of  helping  him  to  bring  forth 
the  best  that  was  in  him.  And  this  was  his  tragedy 
— and  therein  lies  the  unkindliness  of  the  United 
States  toward  all  its  short  story  writers.  It  wanted 
none  of  the  work  of  Jack  London  the  man  with  a 
soul  and  genuine  emotions  which  burned  for  expres- 
sion; it  remunerated  lavishly  Jack  London  the 
writer  chap  for  his  artificial  concoctions  that  he  de- 
spised. It  made  Joseph  Hergesheimer  wait  four- 
teen years  for  the  most  moderate  recognition  while 
giving  such  a  writer  as  H.  C.  Witwer  almost  in- 
stantaneous acclaim.     It  calls  Ellis  Parker  Butler 

^Our  America,  by  Waldo  Frank. 


OVERTURE  9 

a  great  humorist  and  George  Ade  a  mere  fable 
writer.  It  proclaims  O.  Henry  a  prince  of  story 
writers  and  doesn't  even  know  that  the  unfortunate 
Ambrose  Bierce  once  lived  among  us.  And  the 
vast  majority  of  priests  and  oracles  In  my  profession 
persist  In  justifying  and  perpetuating  this  kind  un- 
klndllness  and  In  Instructing  the  new  generation 
according  to  Its  tenets.  Example  par  excellence : 
Speaks  an  Instructor  In  story  writing  In  one  of  our 
leading  universities,  In  a  critical  and  biographical 
survey  of  our  short  story  writers,  of  "Robert  W. 
Chambers,  Imaginative  artist,"  and  of  Jack  London, 
"at  best  a  third-rate  writer."^ 

The  sum  and  substance  of  all  we  preach  may  be 
summarized  In  the  one  commandment  we  zealously 
enforce  above  all  others:  "Thou  shalt  not  write 
anything  an  editor  won't  buy."  Then  we  analyze 
what  editors  do  buy,  arriving,  by  the  process  of  in- 
duction, at  rules  and  regulations,  which  we  promptly 
proceed  to  Incorporate  into  textbooks  for  the  un- 
lettered. Some  of  our  rules  are  flexible,  others  are 
not,  depending  solely  upon  the  attitude  of  their 
compiler.  An  editor  of  a  prominent  periodical 
once  outlined  the  qualifications  that  recommended 
a  literary  offering  to  him.  He  had  set  up  before 
him  an  ideal  reader,  an  imaginary  lady  with  a 
family  of  daughters  up  in  Vermont,  and  any  manu- 
script submitted  to  him  had  to  answer  satisfactorily 

^Our  Short  Story  Writers,  by  Blanche  Colton  Williams,  PH.D. 


10  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

this  mighty  query:  "Would  the  old  lady  want  her 
daughters  to  read  this?"  If  this  editor  happened 
to  write  a  textbook  for  the  instruction  of  the  would- 
be  story  writer,  the  old-lady-and-daughters  question 
would  undoubtedly  figure  quite  prominently  therein. 
I  am  not  aware  of  any  textbook  on  the  subject  by 
this  gentleman,  but  other  writers  have  had  this 
question,  or  similar  ones,  in  mind  in  evolving  laws 
for  the  would-be  successful. 

I  admit  that  I  have  taught  people  to  answer  these 
mighty  queries,  before  permiitting  them  to  entrust 
their  precious  wares  to  the  Post  Office.  For  most 
editors  have  a  question  of  some  sort —  Will  it 
please  some  imaginary  old  man,  or  country  girl,  or 
young  parson,  or  the  editor's  own  blue-eyed  little 
girl,  or,  especially,  his  advertisers;  and  when  a  man 
or  a  woman  pays  hard-earned  dollars  for  the  in- 
formation of  how  to  "get  by"  the  unfriendly  editor, 
my  professional  ethics  demand  that  I  supply  this 
Information  to  the  limits  of  my  knowledge.  More- 
over, when  a  man  or  a  woman  hands  in  a  story 
which  has  no  earthly  chance  of  being  accepted  by 
any  magazine  because  it  is  burdened  with  a  soul 
which  violates  every  tradition  and  rule  and  policy 
by  which  magazines  are  governed,  it  becomes  my 
duty  to  enlighten  this  student  that  his  Is  not  the  way 
to  "get  by."  For  even  such  a  student — an  excep- 
tion, to  be  sure — has  read  our  advertising  literature, 
has  studied  the  popular  psychology  of  success,  and 


OVERTURE  11 

often,  like  the  other  plodders,  sincerely  believes  that 
a  published  story  Is  a  masterpiece,  a  rejected  one 
worthless.  If  a  story  brings  five  dollars  it  Is  a  poor 
one;  If  It  brings  fifty  it  is  a  good  one;  if  it  brings 
five  hundred  it  is  a  work  of  art.  Gettlng-by,  then, 
becomes  the  supreme  problem,  and  gettlng-by  means 
having  in  mind  the  old  lady  with  her  daughters  or 
the  old  man  with  the  gout.  And  who  can  answer 
what  becomes  of  poor  Lafcadio  Hearn's  queer  idea 
that 

''Literary  success  of  any  enduring  kind  is  made  only  by  refus- 
ing to  do  what  publishers  want,  by  refusing  to  write  what  the 
public  want,  by  refusing  to  accept  any  popular  standard,  by  refus- 
ing to  write  anything  to  order"? 

Poor,  poor  Indeed  I 


CHAPTER  II 

Action 

The  very  first  rule  our  textbooks  endeavor  to 
impress  upon  the  would-be  story  writer  is  that 
action  must  dominate  his  story.  Whole  chapters 
are  devoted  to  the  importance  of  this  ingredient, 
bringing  quotations  from  sundry  editors  proving 
beyond  the  merest  suspicion  of  a  doubt  that  action 
is  the  life  and  health  of  a  story,  the  "punch"  and 
"pep"  and  "pull"  of  it.  Then  follow  chapters  on 
how  to  capture  action;  on  how  to  introduce  it  into 
one's  own  stories;  on  how  to  govern  its  course  to 
the  greatest  advantage. 

The  editors  quoted  are,  of  course,  all  of  the  ad- 
venture and  action  type  magazines.  One  is  reputed 
to  have  stated  his  ideal  beginning  of  a  story  to  be 
something  like  this:  "'He  got  up  and  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  twelve  o'clock.  He  went  up 
into  the  garret  and  hanged  himself."  Another  is 
said  to  like  a  more  mystifying  beginning,  something 
like  this:  "Who  was  the  lady  in  43?  Was  she  the 
blond  man's  wife,  sister  or  sweetheart?  John 
couldn't  sleep  nights  trying  to  find  out."  And  still 
another  gives  his  preferences,  in  the   form  of  an 

12 


ACTION  13 

announcement  of  a  contest  widely  advertised  in  pro- 
fessional magazines,  for  stories  of  "plot,  of  action, 
of  interesting  complication.  Spend  the  sweat  of 
your  brow  on  deeds,  not  on  acute  character  analysis; 
on  big  situations,  on  suspense  and  appeal,  not  in 
tedious  description  and  fine  writing." 

The  few  editors  who  express  preferences  that 
conflict  with  this  cry  for  action  are  not  quoted. 
Here  is  one,  for  instance,  who  likes  "realistic  and 
psychological  stories  from  writers  who  want  to  do 
for  American  life  what  Chekhov  did  for  Russian 
life.  'Plot'  fiction  of  the  type  desired  by  popular 
magazines  is  not  wanted."  But,  then,  there  is  the 
implication  that  his  is  not  a  popular  magazine,  and 
besides,  he  goes  on  to  say  that  "our  rates  for  fiction 
are  very  modest."  And  here  is  another  editor 
who  wants  stories  "that  are  characterized  more  by 
feeling  and  artistry  than  by  'punch.'  "  But  who  is 
she,  for  it  is  a  she  in  this  instance,  to  tell  us  what 
is  wanted !  Why,  the  circulation  of  her  little  peri- 
odical is  so  insignificant  that  she  is  hardly  justified 
in  having  any  wants  at  all!  The  fact  that  this  little 
publication  publishes  some  of  the  most  distinctive 
stories  written  in  America  today  does  not  count,  of 
course.  It  is  not  a  widely-read  magazine ;  it  does  not 
pay  for  contributions ; — it  deserves  no  attention. 

Plainly,  our  duty  as  instructors  and  moulders  of 
the  new  generation  of  story  writers  is  to  base  our 
instruction  on  the  needs  and  preferences  of  the  fie- 


14  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

tion  periodicals  having  the  largest  circulations  and 
able  to  pay  well  for  material  used.  The  inculcation 
of  literary  ideals,  the  stimulation  of  original  talent 
and  the  enriching  of  our  national  letters  are  all 
excellent  themes  for  papers  to  be  read  before  high- 
brow clubs  and  respectable  societies,  but  as  prac- 
tical propositions,  in  a  practical  world,  they  do  not 
lead  anywhere.  Any  one  who  joins  a  class  to  take 
up  story-writing  as  a  profession  wants  to  sell — and 
as  quickly  as  possible.  And  the  story  that  sells 
today  the  quickest  and  brings  the  fattest  check  Is 
the  story  of  action.  Hence  our  first  rule:  "Spend 
the  sweat  of  your  brow  on  deeds !" 

It  is  true  that  there  do  creep  up  some  unpleasant 
contradictions  in  our  methods.  After  laying  down 
the  law  of  action  we  refer  students  to  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  or  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  or  Maupassant  for 
perfect  short-story  models,  and  they  come  back  to 
us  In  a  state  of  perplexity.  They  have  picked  up 
Poe  and  some  garrulous  old  critic,  in  a  superfluous 
introduction,  had  pronounced  "The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher"  to  be  Poe's  best  tale.  They  have 
picked  up  Stevenson,  and  some  equally  old-fashioned 
pedant  had  classed  "Markheim"  as  a  masterpiece. 
They  have  picked  up  Maupassant,  and,  again,  some 
ancient  scholar  had  lifted  "Solitude"  to  a  pre- 
eminent position.  Yet  not  one  of  these  three  stories 
Is  particularly  conspicuous  for  action.  Poe  seems 
to  have  spent  the  sweat  of  his  brow  in  creating  an 


ACTION  15 

atmosphere  of  extreme  morbidity  (oh,  terror-strik- 
ing word  in  our  optimistic  texts!);  Stevenson,  on 
acute  character  analysis;  and  the  insane  Frenchman 
on  some  irrelevant  pratthngs  about  soHtude  and  the 
whys  and  wherefores  of  this  queer  life  of  ours. 

Occasionally  some  student  with  sufficient  courage 
to  voice  his  perplexity  timidly  inquires:  "Would  any 
magazine  accept  such  stories  today?  There  is  so 
little  action  and  still  less  optimism  in  them!"  I 
think  of  all  the  stories  I  have  read  in  recent  periodi- 
cals that  I  can  remember  and  am  obliged  to  admit 
that  few  present-day  magazines  would  be  tempted  to 
accept  a  story  of  the  type  on  which  the  masters 
chose  to  lavish  their  best  work.  I  think  this  esti- 
mate conservative,  but  soon  the  various  anthologies 
of  the  best  short  stories  that  have  appeared  in  our 
magazines  in  the  last  half  dozen  years  leap  into  my 
mind  and  protest  against  my  harsh  verdict.  Some 
sort  of  a  change  really  has  come  over  our  fiction 
recently.  Fully  twenty-five  per  cent,  of  the  stories 
in  Mr.  O'Brien's  yearly  collection,  for  instance,  are 
decidedly  not  of  the  '"rapid  action"  type,  and  more 
than  seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  stories  in  such  an 
anthology  as  that  compiled  by  the  late  William  Dean 
Howells  would  not  stand  the  "action"  test,  although 
the  latter  anthology  is  not  a  very  exact  reflector 
of  modern  tendencies  since  but  few  living  writers 
are  represented. 

So  it  becomes  necessary  to  explain  the  discrepancy 


16  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

between  the  type  of  story  we  teach  our  students  to 
produce  and  the  type  of  story  we  refer  them  to 
for  study  purposes.  It  becomes  necessary  to  empha- 
size the  fact  that  such  periodicals  as  "The  Little 
Review,"  "Midland,"  "The  Pagan"  (discontinued), 
"The  Stratford  Journal"  (temporarily  suspended), 
"The  Wave,"  and  a  few  others  of  the  "unpopular" 
group  do  not  pay  for  contributions  and  that  the 
few  "leaders"  or  "giants"  in  the  group  pay  but  little, 
and  that,  therefore,  few  "respectable"  writers  con- 
tribute to  them.  Of  the  youngsters  that  do  make 
their  way  to  the  top,  once  in  a  great  while,  through 
the  medium  of  these  high-brow  little  magazines  one 
or  two  may  ever  hope  to  get  into  the  "Big  Four" 
or  similar  high-prestiged  and  well-paying  periodi- 
cals. So  that  while  it  may  be  flattering  to  receive 
the  pale  encomiums  of  a  few  snobbish  critics,  the 
safest  way  is  to  write  "real"  stories  full  of  red- 
blooded  action  and  reap  a  golden  harvest.  Let 
those  who  do  not  care  for  the  riches  of  a  material 
world  be  satisfied  with  the  deluge  of  praise  poured 
upon  a  Sherwood  Anderson;  as  for  most,  Hol- 
worthy  Hall  or  Octavus  Roy  Cohen  seems  a  more 
inviting  model. 

And  if  this  does  not  really  explain  the  uncanny 
discrepancy  in  our  texts  and  they  still  seem  some- 
what confused  and  more  than  a  bit  contradictory, 
we  can,  as  a  last  resort,  have  recourse  to  that  elo- 
quent dictum:  Laws  should  be  studied  to  be  broken  I 


ACTION  17 

And  we  suddenly  acquire  the  becoming  halo  of 
Iconoclasts  and  have  at  last  a  satisfactory  explana- 
tion of  why  our  students  should  read  Poe  and 
Maupassant  and  Stevenson,  yet  not  model  their 
own  work  along  the  best  of  these  masters;  why 
they  should  study  our  anthologies  full  of  such 
''anemic"  stories  as  those  of  Dreiser,  Anderson, 
Cabell,  Waldo  Frank,  Ben  Hecht,  Djuna  Barnes, 
and  even  those  of  Susan  Glaspell  and  Alice  Brown, 
yet  not  write  in  similar  vein  but  should  emulate 
rather  writers  whose  names  never  appear  in  anthol- 
ogies. 

Having  thus  explained  the  validity  of  our  first 
rule  and  having  insisted  on  strict  compliance  there- 
with, we  proceed  to  evolve  methods  for  a  satisfac- 
tory meeting  of  our  rule.  If  action  must  dominate 
a  story  there  should  be  some  system  of  capturing 
this  indispensable  ingredient,  of  imprisoning  it  with- 
in our  brief  literary  form,  of  whipping  it  into  mar- 
ketable shape.  We  find  this  system  and  reduce  It 
to  terse  understandable  terms.  We  dig  down  into 
our  bag  of  story-lore  and  lo !  we  flourish  before  the 
weak  eyes  of  the  uninitiate  another  magic  com- 
mandment :  Complicate  !  Complicate  if  you  would 
have  Action  in  your  stories.  Complicate  if  you 
would  have  Suspense.  Complicate  if  you  would 
exchange  rejection  slips  for  checks  I 

It  is  true  that  we  are  careful  to  explain  our 
schemes   of  complication,   lest   they   be    taken   too 


18  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

literally.  Accompanying  our  commandments  are 
various  precautionary  remarks  about  Logic  and 
Plausibility  and  numerous  other  qualifying  state- 
ments. But  in  the  main  Action  and  Complication 
are  held  forth  as  the  two  most  important  principles 
of  sound  story-writing.  First  of  all,  then,  our 
students  are  urged  to  plot  and  complicate  so  that 
there  be  not  a  tedious  moment  in  their  product. 
Let  every  sentence  move  forward  the  action.  Let 
new  developments,  startling  in  their  unusualness 
and  unexpectedness,  crop  up  all  the  time.  And 
don't  forget  to  keep  in  reserve  the  grandest  develop- 
ment of  all,  the  most  surprising,  for  the  very 
end.  The  Denouement  is  the  thing  1  Charming 
word — French,  you  know. 

I  remember  a  young  girl  who  attended  my  classes 
but  a  short  time.  ''My  weakness  seems  to  be  a  lack 
of  inventiveness,"  she  confided  to  me.  "My  plots 
are  too  quiet."  She  handed  in  a  story  and  I  agreed 
with  her.  Her  plots  were  quiet,  but  it  was  the 
quiet  of  Spoon  River  and  Winesburg  and  Gopher 
Prairie.  She  knew  intimately  the  little  old  Southern 
town  she  hailed  from,  and  she  had  the  gift  of  mak- 
ing me  know  it.  I  knew  it  in  its  past  and  present 
and  future,  which  was  all  of  one  tone  and  texture; 
I  knew  its  proud  inhabitants,  patrician  and  plebeian; 
I  felt  its  pulse.  I  told  the  girl  not  to  attempt  to 
infuse  plot  into  her  story  and  suggested  a  number  of 
magazines  that  might  accept  it  as  it  was. 


ACTION  19 

"But  I  don't  want  to  write  for  these  small  pub- 
lications!" she  objected.  "Nobody  has  ever  heard 
of  them.  I  want  to  get  into  the  'Saturday  Evening 
Post,'  the  'Cosmopolitan,'  and  the  'Red  Book.' 
And  they  want  more  plot  than  I  manage  to  put  into 
my  stories;  that's  what — told  me."  And  she  named 
a  much  advertised  commercial  critic. 

Evidently  I  proved  incapable  of  generating  within 
her  the  coveted  element  of  inventiveness,  for  the 
girl  dropped  out  after  an  exceedingly  brief  stay 
and  I  have  heard  nothing  from  or  of  her  since.  Her 
name  has  not  yet  appeared  in  the  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  nor  in  the  Cosmopolitan,  nor  in  the  Red  Book 
— nor,  to  my  knowledge,  in  any  other  magazine. 
The  eminent  critic  had  done  his  work  very  well 
indeed.  His  teachings  that  every  story  must  have 
an  ingenious  plot  had  seemingly  struck  root,  and 
the  girl  with  her  plotless  little  town  and  its  plotless 
little  lives  has  probably  decided,  in  utter  despair, 
that  her  mind  is  hopelessly  devoid  of  the  one 
essential  for  successful  story-writing — inventiveness. 

Of  course,  she  could  have  been  made  to  stay  and 
persevere  a  little  longer,  and  perhaps  she  might 
have  yet  attained  her  modicum  of  success.  If  to 
her  quiet  little  story  a  few  entanglement  tricks  had 
been  dexterously  applied  the  girl  would  have  been 
satisfied  and  probably  also  some  editor  or  another 
of  the  more  remunerative  magazines  to  which  she 
aspired.     The  aspect  of  her  sleepy  Southern  town 


20  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

would  have  undergone  a  strange  metamorphosis, 
and  her  lethargic  hero  and  heroine  would  have  been 
changed  into  inhabitants  of  some  hectic  metropolis, 
but  that,  of  course,  would  have  merely  proved  the 
magic  of  sound  technique. 

One  of  the  surest  of  these  tricks  of  ours  is  the 
introduction  of  a  second  or  third  line  of  interest. 
Where  a  story  is  thin  and  uninteresting  an  entirely 
different  story  can  be  brought  in  and  the  two  skill- 
fully connected,  related  and  correlated.  Our  texts 
abound  in  geometric  diagrams  of  lines  and  curves 
and  circles,  bisected  and  intersected,  zig-zagging, 
up  and  down,  rising  to  various  points  of  crises  and 
climaxes  and  catastrophes,  and  falling  again  with 
the  inevitable  denouement.  These  diagrams  look 
like  sacred  hieroglyphics  to  the  credulous  student 
who  approaches  their  cryptic  meaning  with  a  rever- 
ent awe.  Given  a  story  that  reads  too  "narratives- 
like,  that  lacks  interest  because  too  few  crises  are 
arrived  at,  and  its  weakness  can  usually  be  traced 
to  its  single  line  of  interest  which  is  not  thick 
enough  to  generate  the  necessary  amount  of  sus- 
pense. The  introduction  of  another  line  brightens 
it  up,  adds  suspense,  complication — Interest. 

The  process  really  is  a  simple  one.  The  moving 
pictures  employ  it,  invariably,  with  greatest  effect. 
A  young  man  is  leading  the  confident  life  of  a  fresh- 
man in  some  Middle-Western  town.  The  first  line 
is  started.     The  young  man's  environment  is  pic- 


ACTION  21 

tured,  his  habits  and  likes  and  dislikes  and  his  tower- 
ing ambitions.    He  is  a  marked  man.     But  here  his 
line  breaks.    The  continuity  writer  has  become  busy 
introducing   an   entirely   different   line   of   interest. 
Beautiful  Lady  Psyche  has  left  her  shire  castle  and 
is  sailing  for  America  on  the  Mammoth  liner.    The 
orchestra  is  playing,  and  the  Lady  is  standing  on 
the  upper  deck,  her  delicate  white  hands  grasping 
the  railing.     Her  eyes  are  deep  and  wistful  and 
hopeful.     We  know,  of  course,  even  at  this  time, 
that  she  will  in  some  fateful  way  meet  our  unsus- 
pecting freshman.     It  is  only  a  question  of  time. 
Her   career   and   his   will    become    entangled    and 
merged  into  one.     In  the  meantime  we  are  watch- 
ing and  waiting.     But  at  this  point  the  continuity 
writer  again  breaks  the  line  and  begins  an  entirely 
new  one.     On  the  liner  is  "Taffy"  Slim  and  he  is 
scheming  to  rob  Lady  Psyche  of  her  famous  jewels. 
Now  we  are  watching  Taffy's  career.     He  succeeds 
and  makes  his  get-away,  but  Lady  Psyche's  jewels 
are  known  the  world  over,   having  been   photog- 
raphed on  numerous  occasions  for  the  rotogravure 
supplements  of  our  Sunday  newspapers,  and  Taffy 
finds  himself  unable  to  dispose  of  them.     He  wan- 
ders through  the  length  and  breadth  of  our  land 
starving,  with  a  fortune's  worth  of  jewels  in  his 
pocket,  until  finally,  he  comes  to  our  Mid-Western 
college  town  and  meets  our  freshman.    This  clever 
hero  buys  the  jewels  for  a  bun  and — oh,  gallantry  of 


22  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

gallantries  I — undertakes  to  return  them  to  their 
beautiful  heart-broken  owner.  Now  we  see  how 
these  three  lines  have  been  crossed  and  recrossed 
and  why!  We  don't  know  yet  what  the  gallant's 
reward  will  consist  of  but  we  hope  it  will  be  a  pro- 
posal of  matrimony;  in  fact,  we  are  not  willing  to 
accept  anything  less  for  our  hero. 

In  the  short  story  this  double-or  multiple-line-of- 
interest  method  was  employed  most  successfully  by 
O.  Henry  and  is  clung  to  by  most  of  his  followers. 
Its  skillful  manipulation  undoubtedly  results  in  a 
more  marketable  product.  It  insures  a  thrilling 
sequence  of  events,  if  not  always  a  logical  one.  It 
is  one  of  our  most  venerated  tricks.  We  underline 
it  in  our  texts.  We  point  out  its  potency  in  unmis- 
takable terms.  We  hold  it  up  as  a  shining  revela- 
tion to  a  gasping  novitiate,  and  for  revelations  the 
timeworn  practice  is  to  demand  blind,  absolute 
acceptance. 

One  result  of  our  attitude  has  just  been  traced  in 
the  experience  of  the  girl  with  her  sleepy  little 
Southern  town  story.  The  incompetent  who  cannot 
think  in  terms  of  criss-cross  lines  is  eliminated. 
Artificiality  is  not  only  encouraged  but  placed  at  a 
premium.  Sincerity  and  that  highest  of  artistic 
qualities,  simplicity,  are  held  up  as  baneful  stumb- 
ling blocks  in  the  way  of  successful  authorship.  We 
may  have  read  Joseph  Hergesheimer  but  we  have 
never  heard  of  his  philosophic  Chwang-Tze  whose 


ACTION  23 

pithy  sentence  prefaces  "Java  Head,"  a  sentence 
full  of  illuminating  words:  "It  is  only  the  path  of 
pure  simplicity  which  guards  and  preserves  the 
spirit."  By  undermining  the  young  story-teller's 
faith  in  the  path  of  pure  simplicity  we  undermine 
his  spirit;  we  maim  it;  often  destroy  it  completely. 
Aside  from  the  effect  upon  our  story  writers,  this 
doctrine  of  constant  action  and  complication  and 
entanglement  has  also  been  one  of  the  causes  that 
have  kept  American  fiction  until  very  recently 
almost  entirely  in  the  cheaply  Romantic  school  of 
the  long-forgotten  past.  It  has  become  strongly 
rooted  in  our  readers  through  a  perpetual  diet  of 
fiction  that  embodies  these  "vital"  ingredients,  and 
consequently  also  in  our  editors  who  must  alertly 
watch  the  demand  to  engage  successfully  in  its 
supply.  As  far  as  we  are  concerned  it  would  seem 
that  the  great  realists  and  naturalists  have  lived 
and  died  in  vain.  We  are  still  writing  largely  fairy 
tales,  American  in  color  and  setting  to  be  sure,  about 
bizarre  adventures  and  quixotic  adventurers.  And 
in  our  institutions  of  learning  we  are  still  preaching 
that  stories  must  be  full  of  thrilling  incidents  and 
brave  denouements  to  be  interesting  and  meritorious. 
We  are  still  living  in  the  fantastic  land  of  improb- 
able plots  where  men  bound  and  rebound  according 
to  specific  orders  of  the  author.  That  "the  value 
of  a  dramatic  action  has  nothing  to  do  with  novelty 
of  incident  or  the  tingle  of  physical  suspense" ;  that 


24  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

"Character,  motive  and  fatality,  man  and  the  earth 
and  the  gods — such  are  the  elements  of  dramatic 
action,"^  has,  as  yet,  occurred  to  few  of  us. 

An  admission  must  be  made :  It  is  becoming 
increasingly  difficult  to  find  plot  material  that  hasn't 
been  worn  threadbare  by  immoderate  use.  The 
South  Seas  and  the  Pacific  Islands  have  been  pretty 
well  covered.  Alaska  and  Hudson  Bay  are  no 
longer  inviting.  The  cow-boy  story,  though  not 
yet  entirely  extinct,  is  fast  becoming  so.  The  crook 
story,  though  still  popular  with  a  particular  type  of 
magazine  and  magazine  purchaser,  requires  a 
greater  measure  of  ingenuity  to  be  attractive.  Base- 
ball and  football  heroism  is  still  going  strong  but 
the  market  is  limited.  The  Country-Boy-who-be- 
comes-a-Wall-Street-magnate  story  will  probably 
continue  as  long  as  the  large  business  fiction  maga- 
zines will  retain  their  million-and-more  circulation 
marks,  but  it  is  beginning  to  tax  the  writer's  inven- 
tive capacity  for  brilliant  deals  for  the  hero  to  get 
to  that  crowded  narrow  thoroughfare  below  Brook- 
lyn bridge.  The  rash-things-that-pretty-girls-do 
story  is  just  now  having  its  vogue,  but  will  blow  over 
like  a  Bill  Hart  or  Douglas  Fairbanks  fame.  The 
situation  is  gloomy  indeed,  even  critical — if  we  wish 
to  look  at  it  that  way.  Many  old  writers  as  well  as 
young  ones  admit  it. 


^  The    Case    of    "John    Haivthorne,"    Ludwig    Lewisohn,     The 
Nation,  February  16,   1921. 


ACTION  25 

But  we  don't.  We  are  optimists.  When  cor- 
nered we  say:  "Yes,  the  present  market  does  have 
some  such  aspect,  but  it  simply  proves  one  thing — 
the  necessity  for  the  greater  mastery  of  technique, 
for  more  originality."  Then  we  proceed  to  elu- 
cidate. We  define  originality.  It  isn't  concerned 
with  theme  but  with  the  handling  of  theme.  There 
are  no  new  themes  under  the  sun;  never  were.  A 
novel  twist  applied  to  a  threadbare  theme  is  origi- 
nality. These  twists  can  be  learned — that's  what  we, 
teachers  of  technique,  are  here  for:  to  show  how. 
The  secret  lies  not  only  in  plenty  of  action  and  com- 
plication but  in  the  spectacular  handling  of  these 
elements.  There  are  many  ways  of  doing  it  effec- 
tively; plot  order,  for  instance. 

The  common  fault  of  the  inexpert  literary  mech- 
anician is  that  he  usually  tells  his  story  in  the 
chronological  order.  Assuming  that  his  story  pre- 
sents a  series  of  twenty  steps,  composed  of  incidents 
and  episodes  of  varying  Intensity,  he  presents  them 
all  in  the  order  of  time  of  occurrence,  thus  obtaining 
a  quiet  narrative  lacking  in  either  suspense  or 
"punch."  But  it  is  possible  to  juggle  these  steps  in 
different  ways  so  as  to  get  them  to  unfold  in  a  most 
dramatic  sequence.  It  is  possible  to  reverse  this 
chronological  order  and  begin  with  incident  number 
twenty  and  work  back  to  number  one.  That  is, 
instead  of  narrating  the  crimes  of  our  picaresque 
hero,  which  finally  get  him  into  jail,  in  the  order  of 


26  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

commission,  we  begin  with  the  man  already  safely 
tucked  away  behind  the  bars — it  is  nearly  always  a 
man;  women  get  into  jails  but  rarely  in  our  fiction, 
except  for  the  heart-rending  scene  of  meeting  their 
husbands  or  sweethearts — and  then  work  back  to 
his  crimes  and  the  day  when  evil  was  not  yet  in  his 
heart  and  he  was  still  attending  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

We  may  then  use  this  "logical"  method  of  plot 
order  or  we  may  use  a  mixed  method  or  we  may 
use  any  one  of  a  number  of  variants  of  these 
methods.  We  may,  for  example,  begin  with  step 
number  five  and  run  up  to  step  number  ten,  then 
work  in  steps  one  to  five  and  proceed  with  step  num- 
ber eleven.  Or  we  may  begin  with  step  one,  then 
skip  number  two,  withholding  it  as  a  missing  link 
in  the  chain  for  the  sole  purpose  of  intriguing  the 
reader,  and  spring  it  after  step  nineteen.  All  we 
need  to  know  is  how  to  do  these  jugglings  with  the 
greatest  possible  skill — and  this  is  where  originality 
comes  to  the  fore:  in  the  play  of  craftsmanship. 

This  jugglery  we  can  teach  with  an  absolutely 
clear  conscience.  We  can  cite  any  number  of  great 
masters  who  have  at  various  times  employed  these 
several  schemes  of  plot  development.  Maupassant 
and  Kipling  and  Stevenson  and  Poe  and  O.  Henry 
and  even  the  quiet  Chekhov  have  all  placed  their 
stamp  of  approval  upon  these  methods  by  employ- 
ing them  in  their  own  celebrated  little  masterpieces. 
There  is  really  no  necessity  to  question   whether 


ACTION  27 

they  came  upon  these  methods  consciously  or  Intui- 
tively, from  within  or  without.  This  would  raise 
the  uncomfortable  problem  of  synthetic  and  analytic 
processes,  which  would  merely  confuse  the  student 
and  lead  nowhere.  There  may  be  a  distinction 
between  Incidents  marshalling  themselves  In  some 
inevitable  sequence  of  which  the  author  may  not 
even  be  aware  and  Incidents  juggled  about  artifi- 
cially by  a  writer  who  has  had  it  Impressed  upon  him 
that  method  A  is  more  dramatic  than  method  B. 
There  may  be  a  distinction;  but  for  our  purposes 
it  is  best  not  to  consider  it.  Suffice  us  merely  to 
point  out  that  our  story-construction  lore  is  justified 
by  the  masters.  The  deductions  are  simple  enough : 
Learn  the  tricks  of  the  masters  and  be  a  master 
yourself. 

I  said  we  can  teach  plot  legerdemain  with  a  clear 
conscience.  As  for  me,  however,  I  have  often 
shuddered  to  think  what  a  zealous  graduate  might 
have  done  to  such  a  story  as  Conrad's  "Youth."  In 
his  or  her  deft  hand  it  certainly  would  not  have 
remained  a  mere  "Narrative,"  told  in  the  colorless 
chronological  order;  it  would  have  become  a  finished 
short-story.     Assuredly  finished. 

And  yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  skillful  manip- 
ulation of  our  tricks  is,  after  all,  not  so  easily 
acquired.  There  is  a  brain  and  a  temperament 
which  is  especially  adaptable  to  them,  but  to  the 
majority   they    remain    an    occult    science    forever 


28  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

beyond  their  ken.  These  unhappy  toilers  cannot 
apply  them  to  their  labors.  For  most  students  are 
unable  to  construct  the  slightest  kind  of  plot. 
There's  a  certain  knack  that  must  be  acquired.  The 
young,  inexperienced  mind  must  be  disciplined  along 
certain  grooves.  Most  students  seem  to  be  unable 
to  concentrate  unless  driven  to  do  so.  I  experiment 
with  my  class.  Unexpectedly  I  announce  a  theme 
and  request  the  class  to  construct  an  incident.  Like 
children  bent  upon  solving  a  puzzle,  they  go  to 
work  and  I  am  left  to  examine  the  result.  Fully 
fifty  per  cent,  have  used  the  same  situation  and 
denouement,  as  if  by  agreement;  forty-nine  per  cent. 
have  striven  to  inject  a  novel  twist  or  "O.  Henry- 
ism"  at  the  end.  But  the  one  per  cent!  Why  here 
is  but  a  thin  bit  of  paper,  with  just  a  few  lines 
scribbled  on  it.  If  this  is  an  incident,  it  is  a  very 
short  incident,  indeed.  It  reads:  "I  have  never 
been  able  to  write  under  pressure.  I  must  find  my- 
self in  a  proper  mood.  I  suppose  I  shall  never  make 
a  story  writer."  I  smile.  I  have  a  vivid  picture  of 
young  Tommy  Sandys  losing  his  scholarship  because 
one  elusive  word  had  refused  to  respond  to  his 
bidding. 


CHAPTER    III 

"O.  Henryism'' 

The  mottoes  of  most  of  our  fiction  periodicals  are 
told  on  their  covers:  "A  magazine  of  clever  fic- 
tion," "A  magazine  of  bright  fiction,"  "A  magazine 
of  entertaining  fiction,"  "A  magazine  of  frisky  fic- 
tion." But  with  all  the  available  supply  of  novel 
plot  material  exhausted  by  writers  who  had  the  good 
fortune  of  being  here  before  our  generation  had  an 
opportunity,  what  is  left  to  us  is  neither  clever, 
bright,  nor  entertaining.  However,  O.  Henry 
proved  that  it  was  possible  to  take  the  same  age-old 
material  and  brighten  it  up  with  a  coat  of  sparkling 
cleverness.  He  had  but  to  juggle  his  incidents  in 
such  a  way  as  to  make  them  follow  one  another  in 
a  most  spectacular  sequence.  He  had  but  to  play 
upon  the  credulity  of  his  reader.  Like  the  stage 
magician,  he  said  to  his  audience:  "Observe  that 
there  is  a  tree  here  and  a  fountain  there,  and  with- 
out moving  a  finger  I  shall  reverse  their  positions. 
Now  watch,  presto!  Here  they  are  I"  And  the 
audience  applauded,  wondering  how  he  did  it,  and 
crowned  him  king  of  the  wizards. 

The  king  of  the  wizards,  then,  occupies  a  most 

29 


30  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

honorable  position  in  our  textbooks.  Stories  written 
in  the  vein  of  O.  Henry  sell  more  readily  than 
stories  written  in  the  vein  of  any  other  master. 
There  is  a  brightness,  a  snappiness,  a  cheerfulness 
of  style  about  them  that  draws  the  artistic  sensibili- 
ties of  editors.  And  yet  our  insistence  upon  the 
emulation  of  O.  Henry  has  not  produced  many  other 
O.  Henrys.  Perhaps  it  is  because  O.  Henry  went 
to  the  highways  and  byways  of  North  and  Central 
America  for  his  plot  material  which  he  then  juggled 
to  his  heart's  content,  while  our  students  go  to  O. 
Henry  for  their  plot  material.  Perhaps  also  it  is 
because  O.  Henryism  was  as  much  a  part  of  William 
Sidney  Porter  as  was  his  speaking  voice  which  is 
buried  with  him. 

A  very  young  student  once  lodged  a  complaint 
against  her  own  unruly  self.  "It  is  absolutely  impos- 
sible for  me  to  write  a  single  sentence  in  the  O. 
Henry  way,"  she  said.  "My  stuff  somehow  doesn't 
have  that  swing — it's  dead.  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
ever  learn.    I  am  too  sad  of  disposition,  I  suppose." 

That  was  one  time  I  did  not  smile.  "Why  should 
you  want  to  write  like  O.  Henry?"  I  asked.  "Why 
don't  you  try  to  wear  the  shape  of  shoes  or  the 
color  of  clothes  he  wore,  or  drink  the  kind  of  ginger- 
ale  he  preferred?"  But  I  was  sorry  later  for  my 
unguarded  outburst,  for  I  realize  that  that  was  not 
the  way  to  make  story  writers,  not  the  kind  that 
sell,  at  any  rate. 


^'O.  HENRYISM"  31 

After  all,  O.  Henry's  technique  consisted  mainly 
of  a  series  of  clever  tricks,  and  tricks  can  be  taught, 
even  though  not  perhaps  his  dexterity  in  performing 
them.     His  was  truly  a  gift  of  the  Magi  and  not 
really  a  gift  of  the  gods.     Admitting  that  through 
his  superficial  cleverness  there  occasionally  glimmers 
an  uncommon  understanding  of  and  a  sympathy  for 
the    people    whose    destinies   he    juggles,    the    fact 
remains  that  his  example  is  that  of  clever  execution 
rather  than  artistic  conception.    It  remains  needless, 
then,  for  us  to  point  to  anything  else  in  his  makeup 
save  his  successful  technique.     We  read  a  dozen  of 
his  stories,  call  attention  to  their  brilliant  manner- 
isms and  surprising  twists  at  the  end,  and  exhort 
our  students  to  go  and  do  likewise.     Sometimes  we 
go  a  little  further  and  discuss  the  underlying  psy- 
chology upon  which  O.  Henry  based  his  loops  and 
twists — his  belief  that  our  modern  reader  was  so 
well-nourished  on  stereotyped  fiction  as  to  guess  the 
conclusion  of  a  story  by  its  beginning,  and,  conse- 
quently, O.  Henry  led  him  on  to  believe  that  his 
guess  was  being  borne  out  until  the  very  end,  when 
a  pleasantly  startling  disappointment  was  sprung 
upon  him. 

To  substantiate  our  eulogies  of  the  wizard  and 
to  impress  upon  the  would-be  writer  the  importance 
of  studying  and  emulating  O.  Henry,  we  quote  copi- 
ously from  Stephen  Leacock,  Prof.  C.  Alphonso 
Smith,  and  numerous  other  O.  Henry  friends.    We 


32  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

seldom,  if  ever,  quote  opinions  of  critics  and  editors 
who  are  hostile  to  O.  Henry  and  his  cult.  Here  is 
one  editor,  for  instance,  who  actually  believes  that 
"the  effects  of  such  mannerism,  trickery,  shallow- 
ness, and  artifice  as  distinguished  O.  Henry's 
work,  are  baleful  on  all  literary  students  who  do 
not  despise  them."^  We  know  that  this  editor's 
opinion  must  not  be  credited  with  importance.  His 
is  only  a  small  Greenwich  Village  publication.  The 
checks  that  writers  receive  come  from  editors  who 
do  like  O.  Henry's  ways;  in  fact,  prefer  O.  Henry- 
esque  stories  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  any  other 
type.  Hence  we  examine  the  work  of  our  students 
with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction.  By  far  the  greater 
number  have  imbibed  our  teachings.  Their  work 
shows  a  striving  after  cleverness,  witty  flippancy, 
grotesque  slang,  and  an  attempt  to  cap  the  denoue- 
ment with  a  novel  twist,  a  perfectly  surprising  turn. 
Thus  we  know  that  our  work  is  not  in  vain;  at 
least  some  of  our  students  are  on  the  way  to  success. 
Again,  this  is  not  a  plea  on  behalf  of  those  incom- 
petents who  are  not  O.  Henryesquely  gifted  and  arc 
therefore  not  on  the  way  to  success.  It  is  merely 
a  dispassionate  consideration  of  the  profession  of 
teaching  story-writing  and  its  existing  standards  and 
ethics.  Since. the  O.  Henry  story  is  held  up  as  the 
supreme  model,  it  is  only  fair  to  inquire  into  the 

*  Joseph  Kling,  editor  of  The  Pagan,  in  symposium  appended  to 
"The    Best    College    Short    stories."     The    Stratford    Company. 


"O.  HENRYISM"  33 

results  thus  produced.  We  have  been  so  eloquent 
with  pride  on  the  progress  of  our  short  story.  Since 
Professor  Brander  Matthews  first  expounded  its 
philosophy,  away  back  in  1884,  and  connected  the 
two  little  words  by  a  hyphen  to  distinguish  this  form 
beginning  with  an  Initial  Impulse  and  running  up  to 
a  Climax  and  falling  down  to  a  Denouement  from 
the  story  which  is  merely  short,  it  has  become  our 
prevailing  form  of  literature.  The  quantity  turned 
out  annually  is  beyond  the  dreams  of  such  a  pioneer 
as  Poe.  But  the  quality — ah,  that  is  another  story  I 
What  proportion  of  this  wholesale  output  can  be 
candidly,  suppressing  for  the  moment  our  desire  to 
experience  flattering  sensations,  added  to  our 
national  literary  treasury?  How  many  memorable 
stories  come  to  mind  to  waylay  us  with  their  poig- 
nant spell  of  subtlety  and  beauty — such,  let  us  say, 
as  Kipling's  "Without  Benefit  of  Clergy,"  or  Chek- 
hov's "Ward  No.  6,"  or  Maupassant's  "In  the 
Moonlight"?  Few,  isn't  it?  And  peculiar,  is  it 
not,  that  though  we  have  been  heaping  the  warmest 
of  praise  upon  Richard  Harding  Davis  and  Clar- 
ence Budington  Kelland  and  George  Randolph 
Chester  and  Richard  Washburn  Child  and  Mary 
Roberts  Rinehart  and  a  score  or  more  of  our  other 
popular  writers,  the  few  memorable  stories  that  do 
come  to  mind  were  not  written  by  these  favorites. 
How  much  of  the  O.  Henryesque  is  to  be  found  in 
Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman's  "Revolt  of  Mother," 


34  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

or  in  Theodore  Dreiser's  "The  Lost  Phoebe,"^  or, 
to  take  a  more  recent  example,  in  Anzia  Yezierska's 
"Hungry  Hearts"?^  These  stories  are  everything 
that  the  wizard's  stories  are  not.  They  are  neither 
breezy,  nor  flippant,  nor  surprising;  nor  "refresh- 
ing." Judged  by  our  standards  they  are  anomahes. 
I  am  sufficiently  steeped  in  our  inspirational  litera- 
ture to  be  aware  of  the  dangers  of  pessimism. 
The  Doctors  Crane  and  Orison  Swett  Marden  and 
Walt  Mason  have  left  their  effect  upon  my  disposi- 
tion. But  it  is  only  logical  to  deduct  that  if  all  the 
O.  Henry  standards  that  we  have  so  triumphantly 
established  and  extolled  for  the  guidance  of  our 
story  writers  have  failed  to  produce  a  single  great 
story  to  compare  with  the  best  that  other  countries 
which  do  not  preach  and  practice  O.  Henryism  have 
produced,  there  is  something  wrong  with  our  stand- 
ards. These  are  unusual  times  we  are  living  in. 
Everything  that  has  seemed  to  us  wise  and  sound 
and  sublime  is  coming  in  for  a  share  of  skepticism 
and  revaluation.  Unquestionable  things  are  being 
questioned.  Is  it  not  a  propitious  time  to  attempt 
a  revaluation  of  our  short-story  dogmas?  What 
is  the  contribution  of  O.  Henryism  to  our  national 
letters  and  to  the  short  story  as  a  form  of  literary 
expression?     How  great  an  artist  really  was  Wil- 

2  Both  of  these  stories  are  to  be  found  in  William  Dean  Howells' 
"Great  Modern  American  Stories:  An  Anthology."  Boni  & 
Liveright. 

*  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co. 


"O.  HENRYISM"  35 

liam  Sidney  Porter,  the  founder  of  the  Cult?     Is  it 
sacrilege  to  attempt  to  answer  these  questions? 

O.  Henry  left  us  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty 
stories.  In  the  decade  before  his  death  he  turned 
out  an  average  of  twenty-five  stories  a  year.  Mr. 
William  Johnston,  an  editor  of  the  New  York 
World  relates*  the  struggles  of  O.  Henry  in  trying 
to  live  up  to  a  three-year  contract  he  had  with  that 
paper  calling  for  a  story  a  week.  There  were  weeks 
when  O.  Henry  would  haunt  the  hotels  and  cafes 
of  New  York  in  a  frantic  search  of  material,  and 
there  were  times  when  the  stories  could  not  be  pro- 
duced on  time  and  O.  Henry  would  sit  down  and 
write  the  most  ingenious  excuses.  Needless  to  state 
that  O.  Henry's  stories  bear  all  the  marks  of  this 
haste  and  anxiety.  Nearly  all  of  them  are  sketchy, 
reportorial,  superficial,  his  gift  of  felicitous  expres- 
sion "camouflaging"  the  poverty  of  theme  and  char- 
acter. The  best  of  them  lack  depth  and  roundness, 
often  disclosing  a  glint  of  a  sharp  idea  unworked, 
untransmuted  by  thought  and  emotion. 

Of  his  many  volumes  of  stories,  "The  Four 
MlUion"  is  without  doubt  the  one  which  is  most 
widely  known.  It  was  his  bold  challenge  to  the 
world  that  he  was  the  discoverer — even  though  he 
gave  the  census  taker  due  credit — of  four  million 
people  Instead  of  four  hundred  In  America's  metrop- 
olis that  first  attracted  attention  and  admiration. 

*The  Bookman,  February  1921. 


36  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

The  Implication  was  that  he  was  imbued  with  the 
purpose  of  unbaring  the  hves  of  these  four  miUion 
and  especially  of  the  neglected  lower  classes.  A 
truly  admirable  and  ambitious  self-assignment.  And 
so  we  have  "The  Four  Million."  But  to  what 
extent  was  he  successful  in  carrying  out  his  assign- 
ment. How  much  of  the  surging,  shifting,  pale, 
rich,  orderly,  chaotic,  and  wholly  incongruous  life 
of  New  York  is  actually  pulsating  in  the  twenty-five 
little  stories  collected  in  the  volume? 

What  is  the  first  one,  "Tobin's  Palm,"  if  not  a 
mere  long-drawn-out  jest?  Is  it  anything  more  than 
an  anecdote  exploiting  palmistry  as  a  "trait" — to 
use  another  technical  term — or  point?  It  isn't  New 
York,  nor  Tobin,  nor  any  other  character,  that 
makes  this  story  interesting.  It  is  O.  Henry's  trick 
at  the  end.  The  prophecy  is  fulfilled,  after  all,  in 
such  an  unexpected  way,  and  we  are  such  satisfied 
children  I 

What  is  the  second  story,  the  famous  "Gift  of 
the  Magi"?  We  have  discussed  It  and  analyzed  It 
in  our  texts  and  lauded  it  everywhere.  How  much 
of  the  life  of  the  four  million  does  It  hold  up  to  us? 
It  Is  better  than  the  first  story;  yes,  much  better. 
But  why  is  it  a  masterpiece?  Not  because  It  tries 
to  take  us  into  the  home  of  a  married  couple 
attempting  to  exist  in  our  largest  city  on  the  hus- 
band's income  of  $20  per  week.  No,  that  wouldn't 
make  it  famous.     Much  better  stories  of  poverty 


"O.  HENRYISM"  37 

have  been  written,  much  more  faithful  and  poig- 
nant, and  the  great  appreciative  public  does  not 
even  remember  them.  It  is  the  wizard's  mechanics, 
his  stunning  invention — that's  the  thing  I  Delia 
sells  her  hair  and  buys  a  fob  for  hubby's  watch; 
while  at  the  same  time  hubby  sells  his  watch  and 
buys  her  a  comb.  But  you  don't  know  all  this  until 
they  get  together  for  the  presentation  of  the  gifts, 
and  then  you  gasp.  We  call  this  working  criss-cross, 
a  plot  of  cross  purposes.  In  this  story  we  usually 
overlook  entirely  one  little  thing — the  last  para- 
graph. It  really  is  superfluous  and  therefore  con- 
stitutes a  breech  of  technique.  We  preach  against 
preaching.  Tell  your  story,  we  say,  and  stop. 
"Story"  is  synonymous  with  action.  O.  Henry 
didn't  stop — so  that  even  he  was  sometimes  a 
breaker  of  laws.  But  this  uncomfortable  thought 
doesn't  really  have  to  be  noted ! 

"A  Cosmopolite  in  a  Cafe"  is  a  little  skit  proving 
that  "since  Adam  no  true  citizen  of  the  world  has 
existed."  It  is  the  type  of  writing  that  is  termed 
"short  story"  by  our  humorous  weeklies. 

"Between  Rounds"  is  the  first  story  in  the  volume 
that  really  displays  O.  Henry's  gift  of  mature  satire. 
Here  underneath  his  superficial  jesting  lurks  reahty. 
The  pathos  in  the  lives  of  the  McCaskeys  and  the 
Murphys  is  touched  upon,  lightly  to  be  sure,  but 
sufficiently  to  indicate  that  O.  Henry  saw  it. 

The  plotted  happy  ending  with  plenty  of  "punch" 


38  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

Is  best  exemplified  by  "The  Skylight  Room."  The 
gullible  reader  must  have  really  thought  that  Billy 
Jackson  was  little  Miss  Leeson's  name  of  some  star. 
But  not  so,  ha-ha !  It  really  was  the  name  of  the 
ambulance  doctor  who  came  to  take  her  to  the  hos- 
pital. "Fishy,"  you  say?  Not  any  more  than  "A 
Service  of  Love."  Not  that  the  young  couple  in 
this  latter  story  might  not  have  both  worked  and 
concealed  the  fact  from  each  other.  But  why  both 
in  a  laundry  and  in  the  same  laundry?  Coincidence 
of  course  I  Incidentally,  can  you  recognize  the 
"Gift  of  the  Magi"  here?  Shakespeare  may  have 
never  repeated,  but  O.  Henry  did,  very  frequently 
too.  Here  we  have  again  the  poor  loving  couple 
trying  to  get  along  on  next  to  nothing  a  week.  A 
slightly  different  twist  but  the  formula  is  the  same. 
Even  the  names  of  the  principals  are  almost  the 
same.  In  "The  Gift  of  the  Magi"  we  had  Delia 
and  Jim,  In  "A  Service  of  Love"  we  have  Delia  and 
Joe. 

In  "The  Coming-out  of  Maggie"  O.  Henry  again 
brushes  real  life  and  real  romance.  In  the  hands  of 
a  sincere  artist  this  material  could  have  been  worked 
into  an  immortal  story.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
same  basic  theme — the  heart-hunger  of  a  neglected 
girl — has  been  treated  by  Gorki  in  his  "Her 
Lover."^  And  the  difference  between  the  two 
stories  is  the  difference  between  tinsel  and  diamond. 

^  See  "Best  Russian  Short  Stories,"  Modern  Library. 


''O.  HENRYISM"  39 

''Man  About  Town,"  "The  Cop  and  the  Anthem" 
and  "An  Adjustment  of  Nature"  are  trivial  things — 
expanded  anecdotes  at  best.  "Memories  of  a  Yellow 
Dog"  presents  O.  Henry  at  his  happiest.  It  is  a 
fine  bit  of  satire — a  field  in  which  lay  his  strength. 
In  "The  Love-Philtre  of  Ikey  Schoenstein"  the 
wizard  again  displays  his  bag  of  theatrical  tricks. 
And  so  he  does  in  "Mammon  and  the  Archer," 
with  its  needless  anti-climax — again  breaking  the 
law:  "Thou  shalt  stop  when  through."  "Spring- 
time a  la  Carte"  is  a  long-drawn-out  joke.  So  is 
"From  a  Cabby's  Seat."  In  "The  Green  Room"  O. 
Henry  once  more  had  a  cursory  gUmpse  of  his 
"four  million." 

Now  we  reach  "An  Unfinished  Story."  Thanks 
to  the  good  imps  that  may  have  influenced  him  to 
leave  this  story  unfinished.  It  is  the  only  one  in  the 
volume  that  shows  O.  Henry  was  capable  of  genuine 
emotion  and  had  a  sense  of  artistic  truth.  Dr. 
Blanche  Colton  Williams  would  not  include  it  among 
O.  Henry's  best  because  "It  is  just  what  the  author 
called  it — unfinished.'"  Yes,  admittedly,  it  is  un- 
finished— in  a  technical  sense.  The  $5  a  week  shop- 
girl has  nothing  to  wear  and  does  not  go  to  the 
dance  with  Piggy.  And  that's  all  that  happens, 
except  a  little  sermon  at  the  end  in  which  O.  Henry 
intimates  that  the  fellow  that  sets  fire  to  an  orphan 
asylum,  and  murders  a  blind  man  for  his  pennies, 

«"Our  Short  Story  V^riters."     Moffat,  Yard   and   Company. 


40  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

has  a  cleaner  conscience  than  the  prosperous-look- 
ing gentleman  who  hires  working  girls  and  pays 
them  five  or  six  dollars  a  week  to  live  on  in  the  city 
of  New  York.  To  "finish"  this  story  would  have 
necessitated  the  distortion  of  truth,  the  blurring  of 
the  drab  little  picture.  That  Sidney  Porter  refused 
to  do  it  indicates  to  what  extent  he  was  above  the 
practical  standards  of  his  admiring  disciples  and 
interpreters. 

"The  Caliph,  Cupid  and  The  Clock"  is  a  bit  of 
romantic  clap-trap.  So  is  "Sisters  of  the  Golden 
Circle."  "The  Romance  of  a  Busy  Broker"  is 
the  old  absent-minded-professor-who-forgot-he-was- 
married  joke  belabored  to  the  dignity  of  a  story. 

"After  Twenty  Years"  is  another  bit  of  writing 
that  has  been  burdened  with  unqualified  encomiums 
by  the  O.  Henry  clergy.  The  ingenuity  of  the  plot 
and  the  strong  "kick"  at  the  end  fill  them  with  a 
halleluiah  ecstacy.  An  empty  little  crook  story, 
sketchy,  anecdotal,  is  hailed  as  a  masterpiece. 

In  "Lost  on  Dress  Parade"  you  can  again  recog- 
nize the  same  old  formula  underlying  the  construc- 
tion of  "The  Gift  of  the  Magi"  and  "A  Service  of 
Love."  Another  example  of  criss-cross  plotting. 
"By  Courier"  is  a  typical  syndicate  story.  The  wo- 
man the  doctor  had  held  in  his  arms  was  only  a 
patient  who  had  fainted.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  The 
Best  Girl  forgives  and  forgets.  Nevertheless  it 
represents   an   improvement  over  the   old  type  of 


"O.  HENRYISM"  41 

similar  story.  The  fair  suspect  was  after  all  a 
patient  and  not  the  hero's  sister. 

"The  Furnished  Room"  is  another  indication  that 
O.  Henry  was  capable  of  feeling  the  pulse  of  his 
four  million  when  he  was  so  attuned,  and  "The 
Brief  Debut  of  Tilly,"  though  in  smaller  measure, 
corroborates  it. 

Thus  an  examination  of  O.  Henry's  work  by  any 
one  not  blinded  by  hero-worship  and  popular  esteem, 
discloses  at  best  an  occasional  brave  peep  at  life, 
hasty,  superficial  and  dazzlingly  flippant;  an  idea, 
raw,  unassimilated,  timidly  works  its  way  to  the 
surface  only  to  be  promptly  suppressed  by  a  hand 
skilled  in  producing  sensational  effects.  At  its 
worst,  his  work  is  no  more  than  a  series  of  cheap 
jokes  renovated  and  expanded.  But  over  all  there 
is  the  unmistakable  charm  of  a  master  trickster,  of 
a  facile  player  with  incidents  and  words. 

That  William  Sidney  Porter  was  himself  greatly 
displeased  with  his  accomplishment,  that  he  even 
held  it  in  contempt  is  attested  by  his  prevailing 
cynical  tone.  He  knew  he  was  not  creating  art,  that 
he  was  not  giving  the  best  there  was  in  him.  There 
was  not  time  for  that  and  editors  did  not  want  it, 
and  with  a  bitterness  that  Mark  Twain  and  Jack 
London  shared  to  their  dying  day  he  continued  to 
perform  tricks.  Mr.  William  Johnston  in  his  article 
in  the  Bookman,  referred  to  above,  states  that  after 
reading  one  of  his,  Mr.  Johnston's,  stories,  in  some 


42  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

obscure  Southern  periodical,  O.  Henry  wrote  to 
him:  "I  wish  Vd  written  that  story."  The  story 
was  probably  not  remarkable  in  any  particular  way. 
Mr.  Johnston  is  not  known  as  a  great  story  writer. 
But  O.  Henry  must  have  felt  that  it  was  written 
sincerely  and  his  own  artifice  weighed  upon  him. 

This  is  the  lesson  that  an  honest  teaching  profes- 
sion with  any  critical  vision  at  all,  undertaking  to 
mold  a  generation  of  fiction  writers,  ought  to  point 
out.  Instead  of  worshipping  him  blindly,  calling 
him  the  "American  Maupassant,"  and  quoting 
from  his  biographies  painstaking  proof  that  he 
was  innocent  of  the  crime  of  embezzlement  for 
which  he  served  a  prison  sentence,  we  might  at  least 
mention  the  danger  of  following  his  methods  too 
slavishly.  The  puritanic  impulse  which  inhibits 
any  praise  of  a  man's  work  unless  it  can  first  estab- 
lish his  "sterling"  character  is  excruciatingly 
laughable  if  not  downright  pathetic.  Thus  attempts 
have  been  made  by  meticulous  biographers  to  estab- 
lish the  fact  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe  never  tasted  any 
sinful  beverage.  And  only  then,  having  vindicated 
his  character,  does  the  conscience  of  these  brave  bio- 
graphers permit  them  to  accept  Poe  as  a  great 
writer  and  the  pride  of  America.  Whether  O. 
Henry  was  guilty  or  not  does  not  change  his  stand- 
ing as  a  story  writer,  nor  his  influence  on  other 
writers,  and  It  Is  only  as  such  that  the  student  and 
critic  is  Interested  In  him. 


"O.  HENRYISM"  43 

In  our  attitude  toward  O.  Henry  and  O.  Henry- 
ism  lies  one  explanation  of  the  prevailing  medioc- 
rity of  the  contemporary  American  short  story. 
The  conventional  editor,  teacher,  student,  and 
reader  look  upon  the  short  story  as  upon  some  in- 
teresting puzzle,  the  key  to  which  is  cleverly  con- 
cealed until  the  befuddled  reader  is  ready  to  "give 
up."  Our  would-be  writers  seeking  guidance  from 
my  profession  are  never  disabused  of  this  concep- 
tion but  deliberately  encouraged  to  retain  It.  We 
overwhelm  them  with  our  analyses  of  the  work  of 
the  Master,  with  our  glowing  tributes  to  his  art  and 
charm  and  genius,  his  purity  of  thought  and  his 
philosophy.  An  article  on  O.  Henry,  containing 
essentially  the  same  material  presented  in  this 
chapter,  was  rejected  by  a  magazine  circulating 
among  young  writers  for  the  reason  that  "the 
editor  does  not  hold  your  views  with  regard  to  O. 
Henry's  contribution  to  the  American  short  story. 
He  is  our  supreme  short-story  master.  ..."  In  not 
a  single  textbook  on  story-writing,  of  the  many  that 
have  come  to  my  attention,  have  I  found  such  a 
simple  estimate  of  O.  Henry  as  this:  "His  weak- 
ness lay  in  the  very  nature  of  his  art.  He  was  an 
entertainer  bent  only  on  amusing  and  surprising  his 
reader.  Everywhere  brilliancy,  but  too  often  it  is 
joined  to  cheapness;  art,  yet  art  merging  swiftly 
into  caricature.  Like  Harte,  he  cannot  be  trusted. 
Both  writers  on  the  whole  may  be  said  to  have 


44  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

lowered  the  standards  of  American  literature,  since 
both  worked  in  the  surface  of  life  with  theatric 
intent.  ...  O.  Henry  moves,  but  he  never  lifts. 
All  is  fortissimo;  he  slaps  the  reader  on  the  back 
and  laughs  loudly  as  if  he  were  in  a  bar-room.  His 
characters,  with  few  exceptions,  are  extremes,  cari- 
catures. Even  his  shop  girls,  in  the  limning  of 
whom  he  did  his  best  work,  are  not  really  individ- 
uals; rather  are  they  types,  symbols.  His  work 
was  literary  vaudeville,  brilliant,  highly  amusing, 
and  yet  vaudeville."^ 

This  estimate,  coming  as  it  does  from  a  standard 
source,  cannot  be  discounted  by  attributing  it  to 
radical  or  ultra-advanced  tendencies.  The  fact  is 
that  the  case  of  O.  Henry  is  so  simple  that  even 
standard  critics  and  historians,  if  they  but  choose 
to  be  open-minded,  can  see  through  it.  When  in 
1916  Mrs.  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould  in  an  in- 
terview with  the  late  Joyce  Kilmer  called  O.  Henry 
"a  pernicious  literary  influence,"  even  the  New 
York  Times,  though  hastening  to  the  defense  of  the 
wizard,  admitted  that  there  might  be  something  in 
this  outburst  of  depreciation  of  O.  Henryism.  "I 
hear  that  O.  Henry  is  held  up  as  a  model  by  critics 
and  professors  of  English,"  said  Mrs.  Gerould. 
"The  effect  of  this  must  be  pernicious.  It  cannot 
but  be  pernicious  to  spread  the  idea  that  he  is  a 

"^  Fred  Lewis  Patee  in  The  Cambridge  History  of  American  Lit- 
erature, Vol.  II,  p.  394.  I  find  that  Mr.  Alexander  Jessup  has 
drawn  on  the  same  source  on  O.  Henry  in  his  Introduction  to 
"The  Best  American   Humorous   Stories,"  Modern  Library. 


"O.  HENRYISM"  45 

master  of  the  short  story."  And  the  TimeSj  In  an 
editorial,  although  taking  issue  with  Mrs.  Gerould, 
was  obliged  to  conclude : 

''Maybe  some  day  we  shall  get  away  from  writ- 
ing with  a  set  of  rules  before  us,  and  then  we  shall 
have  literature  instead  of  best  sellers.  Maybe  the 
trouble  with  our  writing  is  that  we  have  developed 
technique  to  such  a  point  that  Tom,  Dick  and 
Harry  are  masters  of  technique  and  anybody  who 
can  get  the  hang  of  it  can  write  a  publishable  story. 
Maybe  our  fiction  has  been  whetted  to  a  razor  edge, 
until  it  is  technique  and  nothing  else.  Maybe  the 
story  has  been  perfected  until  now  we  can  tell  per- 
fectly a  story  that  is  not  worth  telling,  but  have  not 
even  thought  of  learning  what  stones  are  worth 
telling.  Maybe,  if  we  did  that,  and  told  them 
without  thinking  of  technique  and  without  knowing 
that  there  were  any  rules  whatever,  we  might  write 
stories  that  would  be  remembered,  say,  ten  years 
hence.  Maybe  there  is,  after  all,  only  one  rule 
for  telling  a  story — to  have  one  worth  telling  and 
then  to  tell  it  as  well  as  you  can.  Maybe  that  is 
what  is  the  matter  with  the  American  drama  as 
well  as  with  American  fiction.  If  we  could  unlearn 
some  of  the  rules  and  forget  technique  we  might 
not  produce  best  sellers;  and  maybe  if  we  told,  as 
clumsily  as  our  ignorance  of  the  rules  compelled  us, 
stories  that  were  worth  telling,  there  might  be  no 
more  best  sellers,  only  stories  that  would  live  as 


46  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

long  as  the  clumsy  plots  of  Dickens  and  the  inartis- 
tic anecdotes  of  O.  Henry." 

Just  how  long  O.  Henry's  stories  will  live  and 
his  influence  predominate  is  a  prediction  no  one  can 
safely  undertake  to  venture  at  this  time.  It  de- 
pends upon  how  long  we  will  permit  his  influence 
to  predominate.  The  great  mass  of  our  reading 
public  will  continue  to  venerate  any  writer  as  long 
as  our  official  censors  continue  to  write  panegyrics 
of  him,  and  our  colleges  to  hold  him  up  as  a  model. 
The  literary  aspirants  coming  to  us  for  instruction 
are  recruited  largely  from  among  this  Indlscrimina- 
tlng  public.  Sooner  or  later,  however,  we  must 
realize  that  the  American  Maupassant  has  not  yet 
come  and  that  those  who  foisted  the  misnomer  upon 
William  Sidney  Porter  have  done  the  American 
short  story  a  great  injury.  Before  this  most  popu- 
lar of  our  literary  forms  can  come  into  its  own  the 
O.  Henry  cult  must  be  demolished.  O.  Henry  him- 
self must  be  assigned  his  rightful  position — among 
the  tragic  figures  of  America's  potential  artists 
whose  genius  was  distorted  and  stifled  by  our  pre- 
vailing commercial  and  Infantile  conception  of  liter- 
ary values.  Our  short  story  itself  must  be  cleansed ; 
its  paint  and  powder  removed;  Its  fluffy  curls  shorn 
— so  that  our  complacent  reader  may  be  left  to  con- 
template its  *'rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair." 

When  the  great  American  short-story  master 
finally   does   come,    no   titles   borrowed   from   the 


"O.  HENRYISM"  47 

French  or  any  other  nationality  will  be  necessary 
and  adequate.  His  own  worth  will  forge  his 
crown,  and  his  worth  will  not  be  measured  In  tricks 
and  stunts  and  puzzles  and  cleverness.  His  sole 
object  will  not  be  to  spring  effects  upon  his  unwary 
reader.  His  will  be  sincere  honest  art — with  due 
apologies  for  this  obvious  contradiction  in  terms, 
for  art  can  be  nothing  but  sincere ! — a  result  of 
deep,  genuine  emotions  and  an  overflowing  imagina- 
tion. His  very  soul  will  be  imbued  with  the  simple 
truth,  so  succinctly  put  by  Mr.  H.  L.  Mencken,  that 
"the  way  to  sure  and  tremendous  effects  is  by  the 
route  of  simplicity,  naturalness,  ingenuousness."® 

^  Introduction  to  Ibsen's  "Master  Builder,  Etc.,"  Modern  Library, 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Moving  Pictures 

An  assignment  once  given  my  class  called  for  a 
story  based  on  this  simple  germ:  "A  servant  kills 
his  master."  To  my  great  astonishment  I  found 
that  fully  seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  class  had 
decided,  as  if  by  agreement,  that  the  servant  must 
be  either  a  Japanese  or  a  Chinaman.  Why?  The 
students  themselves  could  not  explain  it,  but  I  could. 
I  had  observed  this  unison  of  plot  conception  many 
times  before.  They  had  all  drawn  their  inspira- 
tion from  the  same  inexhaustible  source — the  mov- 
ing pictures.  In  all  probability  not  a  single  stu- 
dent had  ever  employed  or  seen  his  or  her  friends 
employ  a  Japanese  or  Chinese  servant.  If  they  had 
ever  employed  a  servant  at  all,  it  was  most  likely 
some  negro  girl,  and  yet  their  fancy  had  taken  them 
to  the  Asiatics.  For  every  one  has  surely  noticed 
that  in  the  moving  pictures  the  lowly  individual 
who  carries  the  master's  suitcase  is  always  an 
Asiatic  valet.  It  is  fashionable  and  ethical.  The 
laborer,  the  servant,  is  nearly  always  a  foreigner, 
the  American  is  the  "boss,"  the  domineering  chap 
who  wears  the  full-dress  suit  and  faces  the  camera 

48 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  49 

with  a  compelling,  clean-shaven  chin.  The  drowsy 
members  of  our  A.  F.  of  L.  and  the  weak-eyed 
bookkeepers  and  typists  filling  the  galleries  of  our 
motion-picture  houses  must  feel  highly  flattered  as 
they  applaud  the  shadows  of  their  dreams  projected 
on  the  screen.  What  has  plausibility  to  do  with 
the  "Eighth  Art"?  And  who  is  naive  enough  to 
expect  to  find  it  there  ? 

Yet  to  the  student  of  the  modern  American  short 
story,  and  novel  as  well,  the  moving  pictures  must 
come  in  for  a  great  share  of  consideration.  This 
institution  exerts  a  tremendous  influence  on  the 
trend  of  our  fiction,  determining  both  its  form  and 
substance.  It  is  no  longer  a  secret  that  most  of 
our  prominent  fiction-writers  who  still  are  unat- 
tached to  some  studio  are  writing  stories  for  the 
magazines  with  a  view  to  their  ultimate  adaptation 
for  the  screen.  A  number  of  magazine  publishers 
maintain  brokerage  departments  where  the  stories 
appearing  in  their  publications  are  sold  to  film 
manufacturers  and  the  profits  thus  realized  divided 
with  the  authors  or  quietly  deposited  to  their  own 
accounts.  The  editors  of  these  magazines  are  in- 
structed to  keep  an  eye  on  moving-picture  possi- 
bilities of  manuscripts  submitted  to  them.  The 
remuneration  involved  is  so  alluring  that  even 
the  best  writers  with  high  literary  traditions  be- 
hind them  are  fast  succumbing.  But  whereas 
these    old    writers    for    the    most    part    have    al- 


50  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

ready  done  their  best  work  and  have  spent  them- 
selves, so  that  their  loss  to  American  letters  is 
not  very  serious,  the  effect  of  the  moving- 
pictures  urge  upon  the  young  author  is  truly  dis- 
astrous. 

To  write  for  the  screen  as  It  Is  at  present  man- 
aged requires  neither  art  nor  knowledge.  Writers 
with  any  literary  compunctions  cannot  hope  to 
succeed  in  a  field  which  demands  a  complete  distor- 
tion of  all  values.  What  is  required  Is  the  ability 
to  supply  some  acrobatically  Inclined  matinee  idols 
and  curly-haired  Ingenues  with  fast-moving  vehicles 
to  display  their  "stunts."  It  presupposes  an  Inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  the  peculiar  talents  of  each 
star.  If  a  star  can  swim  and  dive  and  ride  horse- 
back and  jump  off  a  running  train  and  dance  grace- 
fully opportunities  must  be  provided  In  the  scenario 
for  the  parading  of  these  talents.  If  another  can 
wear  pretty  clothes  daintily  or  has  pretty  dimples 
on  her  knees  or  looks  particularly  charming  In  the 
uniform  of  a  maid  or  a  governess  the  scenario 
writer  must  be  governed  accordingly  in  constructing 
his  story.  It  is  precisely  because  no  one  outside  of 
a  studio  can  have  such  an  Intimate  knowledge  of  the 
abilities  of  the  various  stars  featured  by  a  produc- 
ing company  that  staffs  are  employed  to  rewrite 
and  prepare  for  production  every  script  purchased 
from  an  outsider. 

The  moving-picture   Industry  is   almost  entirely 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  51 

dominated  by  investors  who  are  as  far  from  litera- 
ture as  the  average  would-be  story  writer  is  from 
being  featured  in  the  pages  of  the  Cosmopolitan. 
Their  concern  is  solely  with  the  box-office.  They 
will  purvey  anything  that  will  yield  the  desired  divi- 
dends. Manifestly  to  apply  the  word  "art"  to  an 
industry  with  such  mercenaries  at  its  helm  is  to 
cover  the  word  with  mud,  unless  we  stretch  the 
term  to  include  the  art  of  making  money.  As 
Channing  Pollock,  in  a  "Plain  Talk  About  the 
Movies,"^  once  said :  "One  of  the  troubles  with  the 
regular  theatre  is  its  conviction  that  the  possession 
of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  turns  a  laundryman 
into  a  litterateur."  The  remark  is  still  more  pun- 
gently  apposite  to  the  cinema  theatre.  The  ignor- 
ance of  the  rich  investors  controlling  the  destinies 
of  the  moving-picture  industry  is  truly  stupendous. 
An  anecdote  current  among  scenario  editors  and 
vouched  for  by  one  of  them  as  an  actual  happening 
throws  a  pitiless  light  on  this  prevailing  trait. 
When  several  years  ago  the  craze  of  adapting 
Dickens'  novels  for  the  screen  was  on,  the  president 
of  a  large  film  corporation  one  day  stormed  into 
his  scenario  editor's  office  and  demanded  to  know 
why  Dickens'  work  had  been  permitted  to  go  to  a 
rival  company.  The  editor  defended  himself  by 
saying  that  some  of  Dickens'  work  could  still  be  got. 
"See  to  it,  then,"  the  great  man  ordered.     "Wire 

^Photoplay  Magazine,   August,    1919. 


52  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

Mr.  Dickens  that  hereafter  we  want  his  entire 
output!" 

And  these  intellectual  giants  are  influencing  the 
output  of  our  Dickenses !  The  singularly  few  ex- 
ceptions in  the  industry  are  powerless  to  change  the 
state  of  affairs.  They  are  either  smothered  by  the 
great  ones  or  are  tolerated  because  they  are  so  in- 
significant. And  these  great  ones  have  decreed  that 
adaptations  of  stage  successes,  old  classics,  best 
sellers,  and  magazine  stories  are  more  desirable 
wares  than  original  stories  written  especially  for 
the  screen.  The  governing  factor,  of  course,  is  the 
previous  advertising  that  these  adapted  stories  have 
had  without  cost  to  the  film  producers.  Story 
values  are  the  least  consideration.  Our  public  is 
so  amusement-hungry  and  so  well-trained  that  it  will 
consume  anything.  Besides,  the  star  is  ninety  per 
cent,  of  the  show  anyhow — people  go  to  see  the 
celebrated  So-and-so  rather  than  the  vehicle  in 
which  So-and-so  appears — otherwise  the  mag- 
nates would  not  pay  five  hundred  dollars  for  a  story 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  a  star's  performance 
in  it. 

The  fact,  however,  that  moving-picture  producers 
are  not  purchasing  original  scenarios  does  not  deter 
the  numerous  literary  schools  of  the  country  from 
offering  instruction  in  photoplay  writing.  The  ad- 
vertising matter  of  these  schools  is  as  optimistic  as 
ever.     "Makes  $50,000  a  year  by  writing  for  the 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  53 

screen,"  reads  one  headline.  "Moving-picture 
stories  in  demand  everywhere!"  reads  another. 
Then  the  information  is  generously  volunteered 
that  a  certain  scenario  writer  in  a  California  studio 
is  earning  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year;  another 
twenty-five  thousand;  and  countless  others  between 
five  and  ten  thousand.  Convincing  proof  is  pre- 
sented that  no  education  or  previous  experience  is 
necessary;  that  one  farmer  in  the  backwoods  of 
Washington  or  Oregon  or  on  the  prairies  of  Illinois 
has  sold  a  scenario  for  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars;  that  one  woman  who  was  never  graduated 
from  a  public  school  has  written  a  masterpiece  in 
her  spare  time  between  cooking  her  victuals  and 
tending  to  her  seven  children  and  an  invalid  hus- 
band, and  that  as  a  result  of  her  exploit  she  has  now 
paid  off  the  mortgage  on  her  house  and  is  experi- 
menting with  the  mechanism  of  a  Dodge  car. 

This  alluring  prospect  of  becoming  affluent  via 
a  course  in  photoplay  writing  is  held  out  not  only 
by  the  average  correspondence  school  but  also  by 
not  a  few  of  our  dignified  institutions  of  learning. 
There  is  no  excuse  for  offering  any  instruction  in  an 
art  that  is  on  such  a  low  plane  of  development,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  that  of  elevating  it,  which  is  not  an 
aim  avowed  by  any  of  these  institutions;  and, 
besides,  mere  honesty  alone  ought  to  compel  even 
the  most  enterprising  trustee  or  administrator  to 
reach  the  simple  conclusion  that  since  the  demand 


54  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

for  original  photoplays  is  practically  non-existent, 
as  far  as  the  novice  is  concerned,  it  is  useless  to 
manufacture  photoplaywrights.  The  refusal  to 
accept  such  a  logical  conclusion  results  in  disappoint- 
ments and  heartaches  and  the  upsetting  of  normal 
useful  careers.  A  glimpse  at  the  record  of  original 
scenarios  purchased  by  some  of  our  leading  pro- 
ducers even  as  far  back  as  1918,  when  the  policy  of 
using  adaptations  only  was  not  yet  rigidly  adhered 
to,  proves  conclusively  the  extent  of  the  market. 
The  American  Film  Company  purchased  only  fif- 
teen scenarios  during  the  entire  year.  The  Na- 
tional Studios — twelve.  William  S.  Hart — eight. 
The  Fairbanks  Studio — six.  The  Dorothy  Gish 
Company  —  four.  Mary  Pickford  —  one.  The 
Chaplin  Studio — one.^ 

When  it  is  considered  that  some  of  our  ablest 
fictionists  and  dramatists  have  been  writing  photo- 
plays and  that  some  of  these  accepted  scenarios 
were  written  for  particular  stars  and  often  sent 
direct  to  them  or  to  their  directors,  the  chances  of 
the  obscure  novice,  even  the  most  meritorious  one, 
are  far  from  glorious  indeed.  And  since  1918  the 
policy  of  adaptations  only  has  been  enforced  more 
stringently — almost  to  the  complete  exclusion  of 
the  original  script  submitted  by  the  outsider.  A 
few  producing  companies  have  frankly  admitted, 
in  the  various  writers'  magazines,  that  they  do  not 

2  E.  M.  Robbins,  in  the   1919  Year  Book  issued  by  Camera. 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  55 

even  read  manuscripts  submitted  by  unknown  out- 
siders. 

But  while  the  great  mass  of  aspirants  may  not  be 
aware  of  the  true  state  of  conditions  our  more  or 
less  successful  writers  know  It  full  well.  The 
Authors'  League  and  the  Pen  Women's  League 
and  the  various  Writers'  Clubs  throughout  the 
country  have  all  discussed  and  analyzed  the  movlng- 
plctures  market,  and  their  members  are  taking 
means  to  meet  Its  eccentric  exactions.  Why  write 
a  story  In  photoplay  continuity  or  even  detailed 
synopsis  form  only  to  have  it  returned  from  the 
Coast  most  likely  unread,  when  the  same  material 
can  be  written  up  In  a  short  story  or  a  novelette,  Its 
serial  rights  sold  to  a  magazine  and  Its  photoplay 
rights  reserved  and  offered  to  a  film  company  which 
Is  then  sure  to  accord  It  a  friendly  reading?  As  a 
matter  of  record  the  price  paid  for  photoplay  rights 
to  a  magazine  story  is  usually  twice  and  sometimes 
tenfold  the  price  paid  for  an  original  story  written 
especially  for  the  screen.  Part  of  this  extra  com- 
pensation Is  probably  for  the  advertising  value  of 
the  story,  and  part  for  the  judgment  of  the  maga- 
zine editor  which  the  film  magnates  are  more  in- 
clined to  accept  than  that  of  their  own  hired  editors. 
That  fiction  writers  are  taking  advantage  of  this 
unusual  opportunity  to  sell  their  work  twice  is  an 
absolute  certainty.  ''In  fact,  as  several  writers 
remarked  at  the  Writers'  Club  dinner,  a  large  per- 


S6  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

centage  of  the  present-day  magazine  stories  are 
written — planned  and  plotted — with  the  screen 
directly  in  mind.  ...  It  is  well  known,  on  the  in- 
side of  the  game,  that  successful  fictionists  plan 
every  situation  and  bit  of  dialogue  in  certain  stories, 
visualizing,  as  they  write,  the  way  those  situations 
will,  as  they  hope,  work  out  on  the  screen."^  And 
again:  "Today,  among  the  more  successful  writers 
of  action-stories  for  the  magazines,  there  exists  the 
feeling  that  it  is  a  criminal  waste  of  time  to  write 
originals  for  the  screen.  '  Their  method  is  deliber- 
ately to  plan  their  fiction ...  so  that  it  will  actually 
contain  abundant  photoplay  material,  while  yet 
being  properly  balanced  up  with  the  necessary  word- 
painting  and  dialogue  which  good  fiction  demands. 
In  other  words,  they  systematically  plan  their  fiction 
to  make  its  picture  possibilities  'hit  the  producer  in 
the  eye'  the  first  time  he — or  his  scenario  editor — 
reads  it.  ...  Almost  nine-tenths  of  the  pictures 
shown  today  are  adaptations  of  successful  fiction 
stories  or  stage  plays.  If  you  doubt  that,  watch 
the  productions  in  your  theatres  and  note  their 
origin."* 

What  this  "systematic  planning"  results  in  is 
self-evident.  The  moving-picture  story  and  the 
fiction  story  are  two  different  products.  Their 
technique    is    different.     The    photoplay    is    panto- 


3  Arthur  Leeds  in  The  Writer's  Montfily,  April,   1919. 
*  Arthur  Leeds  in  The  Writer's  Monthly,  May,  1920. 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  57 

mime  pure  and  simple.  Ideas  and  emotions  can 
only  be  expressed  by  means  of  gestures  and  facial 
contortions,  with  the  aid  of  a  schoolboy  subtitle 
flashed  on  the  screen.  Literary  style,  psychologic 
delineation,  and  nice  subtleties  of  thought  and 
emotion  cannot  be  transmitted.  The  plot  must  un- 
fold rapidly  and  teem  with  surprising  and  tense 
situations.  The  actors  must  have  something  to  do 
every  second.  To  write  a  fiction  story  with  photo- 
play possibilities  requires  a  careful  selection  of 
theme  and  plot.  Unlike  the  magazines,  which  run 
in  types,  each  catering  to  a  particular  group  of  tem- 
peramental and  intellectual  stratum  of  our  people, 
the  moving  pictures  depend  for  success  upon  the 
approval  of  the  Ladles'  Auxiliary  Society  and  the 
Chew  Tobacco  Club  of  Dead  Hollow  as  well  as 
upon  Greenwich  Village  and  the  bourgeois  Philis- 
tines of  our  metropolises.  No  theme  must  be  used 
that  might  give  offense  to  any  of  these  patrons;  all 
must  be  kept  satisfied  so  that  a  continuance  of  their 
patronage  may  be  insured.  It  is  also  apparent  that 
the  pale,  quiet  story  which  does  not  depend  upon 
action  for  its  "punch"  must  be  entirely  sacrificed, 
since  it  cannot  possibly  have  any  moving-picture 
adaptability.  Only  the  swift-moving,  red-blooded 
plot  can  be  utilized. 

Needless  to  suggest  that  our  story  writers  are 
well  aware  of  these  limitations.  The  fact  that 
their  work  is  adapted  almost  wholesale  into  photo- 


58  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

plays  speaks  eloquently  for  their  knowledge  on  this 
score.  Needless  to  suggest,  also,  that  they  have 
become  expert  mechanics  in  the  way  of  constructing 
a  fiction  story  so  that  it  will  be  certain  to  "hit  the 
producer  in  the  eye."  They  have  learned  that  "the 
photoplaywright  depends  upon  his  ability  to  thitik 
and  write  in  action."^  And  they  have  learned  to 
think  and  write  in  action.  They  have  also  taken 
to  heart  the  dictum  regarding  theme.  "In  selecting 
your  theme,  ask  yourself  if  either  dialogue  or  de- 
scription may  not  be  really  required  to  bring  out 
the  theme  satisfactorily.  If  such  is  the  case, 
abandon  the  theme.  The  few  inserts  permitted 
cannot  be  relied  upon  to  give  much  aid — the  chief 
reliance  must  be  pantomime."^  It  is  only  natural, 
then,  for  our  writers  to  eschew  the  unadaptable 
theme  altogether. 

That  the  bulk  of  our  magazine  fiction  is,  there- 
fore, not  magazine  fiction  at  all,  but  merely  dis- 
guised moving-picture  stories  is  a  fact  that  has 
found  entirely  too  little  general  publicity.  A  mov- 
ing-picture story  differs  from  a  fiction  story  not 
only  in  matter  of  technique  and  theme  barred  by 
limitations  of  technique  but  also  in  many  other 
respects.  As  we  have  seen,  because  of  the  general 
appeal  of  the  moving  pictures  certain  themes  that 
might  offend  any  part  of  the  great  public  must  be 


'^  Writing  the  Photoplay,  Esenwein  and  Leeds. 
«  Ibid. 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  59 

avoided.  Obviously  this  results  In  the  humiliating 
condition  of  degenerating  to  the  standard  of  the 
lowest  patron,  of  courting  his  approval  as  the  final 
goal  of  successful  authorship.  But  should,  per- 
chance, an  author  with  a  virile  conscience  bolt  the 
ranks  of  the  meek  conformists  and  yet,  by  dint  of 
extraordinarily  fortunate  circumstances,  break 
through  with  his  product,  the  power  of  the  various 
Boards  of  Censorship  must  be  reckoned  with. 

There  are,  of  course,  official,  semi-official  and 
unofficial  censors  presiding  over  the  production  of 
our  magazine  fiction,  too.  But  while  a  revolting 
author  may  take  his  work  to  some  less  respectable 
magazine  and  thus  save  his  soul,  no  such  outlet 
exists  for  the  photoplaywright.  His  work  must  be 
so  harmless  that  it  will  pass  not  only  the  National 
Board  of  Censorship  but  also  the  various  State  and 
city  boards,  otherwise  no  enterprising  producer  will 
risk  his  money  producing  It.  The  experienced 
photoplaywright,  then,  studies  the  proscriptions  of 
the  various  boards  and  keeps  himself  informed  of 
all  their  decisions.  He  knows,  for  Instance,  that 
crime  must  be  treated  cautiously,  and  It  must  always 
be  punished  in  the  end;  that  the  National  Board  will 
not  pass  a  picture  in  which  there  Is  a  suicide,  that 
burglary  may  be  shown,  but  not  by  what  means  it 
Is  committed;  that  flirtations  with  women  of  easy 
virtue  are  banned;  that  lynching  scenes  are  per- 
missible   only  when   the   picture    is   laid   in   places 


60  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

where  no  other  law  exists;  that  scenes  showing  kid- 
napping do  not  always  "get  by";  that  elopements 
must  be  handled  delicately;  that,  In  short,  the  effect 
of  the  picture  on  the  young,  the  evil-minded,  and 
the  weak-minded  must  always  be  carefully  gaged. 
The  experienced  photoplaywrlght  also  knows  of 
all  Important  precedents  established  by  the  censors. 
He  knows  that  Shakespeare's  plays  have  not  gotten 
by  unscathed;  that  "Macbeth"  was  deemed  too  full 
of  crime  and  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  too  full  of  love; 
that  a  kiss  between  the  two  youngsters  in  the  latter 
play  was  limited  to  three  feet;  that  Eugene  Walter's 
"Easiest  Way"  could  not  be  exhibited  In  the  sover- 
eign State  of  Pennsylvania  because  the  Board  of 
Censors  of  that  State  had  condemned  it  "in  accord- 
ance with  Section  6  of  the  Act.  .  .  .  Because  it 
deals  with  prostitution";  that  in  O.  Henry's  "Past 
One  at  Rooney's"  such  sub-titles  as  "At  one  end 
was  a  human  pianola  with  drugged  eyes,"  and  "I 
know  how  bad  It  looked — me  smokin'  and  comin' 
In  here.  But  I'll  promise  you,  Eddie — I'll  give 
up  cigarettes  and  stay  home  every  night  if  you  want 
me  to"  were  deleted;  etc.,  etc.  And  above  all  he 
knows  that  religious  and  political  views  must  never 
be  expressed.  Furthermore,  that  If  he  breaks  the 
last  law  and  does  essay  to  express  any  views  at  all, 
they  must  be  the  worn-out  popular  views  that  even 
the  humblest  deacon  or  the  mistress  of  the  little  red 
schoolhouse  back  home  might  be  gladdened  with. 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  61 

because  they  have  been  cherishing  them  as  an  heri- 
tage from  their  ancient  forbears. 

Thus  the  influence  of  the  moving  pictures  on  the 
bulk  of  our  magazine  and  even  book  fiction.  It  is 
a  moving-picture  fiction,  "strong,"  fast-moving, 
starthng,  full  of  cheap  ideas  and  a  gushy  hackneyed 
idealism,  written  largely  by  photoplaywrights  who 
use  the  fiction  medium  simply  because  it  enables 
them  to  exact  a  higher  price  for  their  product,  and 
catering  to  a  photoplay  public.  For  this  moving- 
picture  influence  extends  not  only  to  the  makers  of 
stories  but  to  the  general  reading  public  as  well.  It 
tames  it,  if  indeed  it  need  any  taming,  molds  it, 
forms  it  into  a  hardened  cast  with  a  definite  aesthet- 
icism  which  it  carries  from  the  cinema  house  to 
Happy  Stories  and  Virile  Stories  and  Goody  Stories 
and  back  again.  There  are  traditional  themes, 
traditional  views  and  a  traditional  treatment,  in 
spite  of  the  loud  cry  for  novelty,  and  any  theme, 
view  or  treatment  violating  the  tradition,  should  it 
succeed  to  get  by  the  vigilantes  higher  up,  has  to 
brave  a  combat  with  this  traditional  moving-picture 
taste. 

The  young  story  writer,  like  his  more  mature 
brother  or  sister,  is  infected  with  this  influence  and 
from  the  very  beginning  of  his  career  looks  askance 
at  any  doctrine  that  conflicts  with  his  proud  sesthet- 
icism.  But  in  our  profession  it  is  seldom  that  he  is 
required  to  be  false  to  the  culture  of  the  screen. 


62  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

Our  textbooks  and  the  bombastic  dogmas  they 
largely  exploit  are  themselves  for  the  most  part  a 
product  of  the  same  culture.  He  is  told  to  think 
in  terms  of  action  rather  than  in  terms  of  idea  and 
character.  He  is  trained  in  the  construction  and 
management  of  situation  and  incident  until,  al- 
though not  consciously  intending  to,  he  is  able,  like 
his  more  successful  colleagues,  to  turn  out  passable 
photoplay  material.  Small  wonder  that  most  of 
our  short  stories  abound  in  wooden  characters, 
clumsily  moving  about  on  well-oiled  springs,  think- 
ing stereotyped  thoughts  and  talking  wooden  dia- 
logue. The  atmosphere  fanning  upon  them  has 
the  hot  fetid  tang  of  the  darkened-theatre  air. 

When  told  to  write  a  story  the  student  almost 
without  hesitation  betakes  himself  to  his  supreme 
source  for  plot  material.  It  matters  little  that  this 
material  itself  merely  represents  the  adaptation  of 
some  fiction  story.  The  moving  pictures  today 
could  be  used  as  another  illustration  of  Emerson's 
theory  of  circles,  or  is  it  merely  a  modification  of 
the  delightful  pastime  of  see-saw  of  which  we  were 
so  fond  in  our  childhood?  The  scenario  writer 
adapts  the  magazine  story  and  the  magazine  story 
writer  adapts  the  photoplay  story,  etc.,  etc.,  ad  in- 
finitum. Of  course  the  disguising  twist  often  goes 
with  it,  but  the  material  nevertheless  basically  re- 
mains the  same.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  salability  the  method  is  not 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  63 

without  merit,  everybody  Involved — the  scenario 
editor,  the  producer,  the  public — recognizes  In  the 
revamped  material  an  old  friend,  and.  If  the  re- 
vamping has  been  done  dexterously  and  Ingeniously, 
glories  In  Its  novel  familiarity.  The  failures  em- 
ploying this  method  are  confined  mainly  to  two 
classes  of  students — those  who  are  temperamen- 
tally entirely  out  of  tune  with  the  moving-picture 
traditions,  a  small  minority  to  be  sure,  and  those 
who,  though  favorably  attuned  to  the  spirit  of  the 
silver  sheet,  fail  to  acquire  the  knack  of  giving  their 
work  the  necessary  disguising  twist  which  passes  for 
the  much-vaunted  novelty. 

Admitting  that  It  would  be  extremely  difficult 
and  perhaps  even  futile  to  attempt  to  wean  the 
young  student-majority  away  from  the  well-assimi- 
lated Influence  of  the  show  house,  one  cannot  avoid 
speculation  upon  what  could  be  made  by  a  serious- 
minded  critical  teaching  profession  of  the  open- 
minded  minority  diffidently  seeking  encouragement 
in  their  desire  to  follow  newer  traditions  or  to  give 
birth  to  still  newer  ones.  If  for  one  chapter  in 
our  texts  or  for  one  semester  in  our  institutions  of 
learning  the  joy  of  creating  for  the  mere  love  of  It, 
for  the  sheer  beauty  of  it,  had  been  glorified  as  we 
glorify  popularity  and  commercial  success,  what  a 
buoyancy  of  spirit  we  could  have  engendered,  what 
a  fluttering  of  young  wings ! 

For  two  years  In  succession  a  young  woman  came 


64  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

to  my  classes  and  each  year  she  dropped  out  before 
the  expiration  of  the  term  sending  me  a  note  of 
despair.  She  had  traveled  extensively  through 
Europe  and  the  Orient  as  well  as  through  North 
and  South  America  and  she  had  accumulated  a  fund 
of  experience  to  draw  on  for  material.  She  tried 
hard  to  Imprison  It  in  story  form  but  the  finished 
product  lacked  thrill  and  suspense  and  airiness. 
She  received  nothing  but  the  cold  platitudes  of 
printed  rejection  slips,  while  other  students — as 
Innocent  of  any  knowledge  of  life  as  a  fluffy  ingenue 
capering  through  Rvc  reels  of  silent  drama — who 
modeled  their  work  along  the  lines  of  Popular 
Stories  and  the  Jolly  Book  Magazine  and  the  latest 
releases,  and  seasoned  it  with  a  generous  dash  of 
O.  Henryism,  occasionally  displayed  fair-sized 
checks.  She  worked  away  despondently  and  each 
succeeding  story  tended  to  prove  that  the  text  we 
were  using  and  the  current  magazines  we  were 
studying  were  helping  her  but  little.  There  was  a 
heaviness,  almost  an  eerlness,  permeating  her  work, 
and  yet  it  was  a  heaviness  somewhat  akin  to  that 
which  permeates  the  work  of  Thomas  Hardy.  She 
admitted  that  most  of  the  magazines  we  were  study- 
ing bored  her,  that  she  preferred  "Beyond  the 
Horizon"  and  "John  Ferguson"  to  "Irene"  and 
"The  Passing  Show."  I  advised  her  to  write  som- 
bre tragedy,  yes,  morbid  stuff.  She  produced  a 
passably    good  story.     It  was  rejected  by  the  first 


THE  MOVING  PICTURES  65 

magazine  she  sent  it  to  with  a  personal  letter  expres- 
sing the  editors'  regrets  at  their  inability  to  accept 
such  an  interesting  story,  but  they  never  purchased 
"depressing"  material.  Wouldn't  she  be  kind 
enough  to  let  them  see  something  else  of  her  work, 
something  in  much  lighter  vein?  She  refused  to 
try  another  market,  insisting  that  she  had  known  all 
along  that  she  could  not  write.  All  the  writers' 
magazines  she  had  read  and  even  our  own  textbook 
declared  most  emphatically  that  "morbid"  stories 
were  not  wanted.     She  discontinued  her  studies. 

The  next  year  she  came  back.  "I  can't  help 
writing,"  she  apologized.  "I  simply  can't  resist 
the  impulse  to  write.  I  don't  care  if  I  don't  sell, 
I  am  going  to  write  just  for  myself — whatever  I 
like.  I  merely  want  you  to  see  what  I  am  doing." 
A  few  months  later  she  sold  a  tragic  little  tale  to 
an  unpopular  little  periodical.  But  she  did  not  take 
advantage  of  this,  her  first  success.  Soon  her  work 
began  to  show  labored  flippancy  and  attempted  in- 
genuity, and  it  looked  ludicrously  pathetic — a  Haw- 
thorne austerity  with  an  H.  C.  Witwer  lightness; 
the  combination  was  irritably  grotesque.  Before 
the  end  of  the  year  she  dropped  out  again.  And 
now  she  is  back  once  more.  Whether  she  will  ever 
be  able  to  cut  away  entirely  from  the  cords  of  a 
moving-picture  impulse  only  time  can  tell. 

This  case  is  a  mild  example  of  the  struggle  now 
waged  with  a  sinister  environment  alien  to  all  liter- 


66  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

ary  aspiration  except  for  immediate  gain  by  many 
lonely  souls.  Their  resistance  could  be  materially 
strengthened  by  sympathetic  guidance.  Contrary 
to  the  proverbial  jibes  of  the  cynics  the  literary 
aspirant  is  far  from  possessing  an  over-abundance 
of  confidence.  Intelligent  persistence  is  a  rare  qual- 
ity, not  to  be  found  among  too  many.  The  medio- 
cre aspirant  either  soon  deserts  the  ranks  or  begins 
to  turn  out  salable  wares.  And  the  person  with  a 
genuine  case  of  divine  afflatus  also  either  leaves  the 
ranks  with  a  curse  in  his  heart  or  finally  learns  to 
turn  out  regulation  material  and  becomes  a  cynic 
for  life.  Cynicism  may  be  a  much  more  admirable 
attitude  than  open-mouthed  subservience,  but  it  is 
not  always  conducive  to  sturdy  accomplishment. 
Often  it  is  a  sense  of  surrender.  And  since  mis- 
sions seem  to  be  such  a  popular  necessity  among  our 
pedagogues  and  literary  clergy,  what  could  be  a 
more  worthy  one  than  the  saving  of  these  lonely 
strugglers  from  life-long  cynicism?  But  that  re- 
quires, first  of  all,  an  intelligent  and  fearless  weigh- 
ing of  the  forces  on  either  side  and  the  rolling  up  of 
greater  support  on  the  side  of  the  weaker.  Truth 
and  spontaneity  are  struggling  against  stifling  com- 
mercialism and  artifice;  against  a  hostile  environ- 
ment resting  complacently  on  old  dilapidated  dog- 
mas, and  chuckling  contentedly  with  its  moving-pic- 
ture standards  of  life,  art,  and  literature, — its  mov- 
ing-picture civilization. 


CHAPTER  V 

Verboten 

The  field  of  the  short  story  Is  first  of  all  the  field 
of  the  magazine.  To  be  a  successful  story  writer 
requires  a  comprehensive  knowledge  of  the  policies 
and  preferences  of  the  various  periodicals  that  buy 
stories.  It  is  natural  to  assume  that  literary  agents, 
commercial  critics,  and  teachers  should  be  well 
aware  of  these  editorial  policies  and  preferences, 
and  should  make  every  effort  to  inspire  the  amateur 
with  the  respect  and  deference  due  such  essential 
knowledge.  We  use  this  knowledge  to  stem  any 
Inclination  to  mischief.  We  hold  It  aloft,  over  the 
heads  of  the  unmanageable  ones,  threatening  them 
with  failure,  unless  they  become  manageable.  Thus 
we  preserve  the  dignity  of  the  profession  and  help 
stragglers  on  their  weary  pilgrimage  to  the  golden 
calf. 

For  us  the  task  is  after  all  an  easy  one.  It  is  but 
necessary  to  tabulate  the  good  old  taboos  as  to  the 
content  of  our  stories  and  then  be-write  and  be-lec- 
ture  them  to  make  our  words  impressive.  We  do 
that  In  our  teaching  of  photoplaywriting;  we  do  it  in 
the  teaching  of  fiction-writing.     But  no  one  has  ever 

67 


68  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

seriously  labeled  the  photoplay  as  It  Is  finally  pro- 
duced on  the  screen  as  a  form  of  literature,  while 
our  fiction  undeniably  Is  a  form,  If  not  the  form,  of 
our  national  literature.  It  behooves  us,  therefore, 
to  bring  forward  all  the  pomp  and  pride  and  glory 
we  are  capable  of  and  point  out  the  peculiar  char- 
acteristics that  distinguish  our  fiction  as  a  national 
product  from  the  fiction  of  other  nations.  And  we 
usually  find  It  more  advisable  to  do  It  by  the  nega- 
tive method  of  pointing  out  what  our  fiction  is  not 
rather  than  by  the  positive  method  of  pointing  out 
what  it  is.  Crystallizing  the  more-Important  unde- 
sirable and  therefore  absent  elements  in  our  fiction 
Into  single  words,  we  can  say  that  It  Is  not 
pessimistic;  that  It  Is  not  lewd;  that  It  Is  not 
irreverent;  that  It  Is  not  ^^red" ;  that  It  Is  not 
un-American. 

This  does  not  mean  that  our  literature  abstains 
from  all  discussion  of  the  topics  of  pessimism,  sex, 
religion,  politics  and  economics,  and  Americanism. 
It  Is  merely  the  extent  to  which  they  are  discussed 
and  the  angle  of  discussion  that  elevate  our  fiction 
to  a  position  of  what  passes  for  national  expression. 
Like  the  vicious  circle  that  governs  photoplay 
scripts — adaptation  of  fiction  stories  being  adapted 
in  turn  from  the  screen  and  re-adapted  back  again 
into  scripts — our  opinions  on  the  phenomena  of 
life  are  adaptations  of  the  opinions  imprisoned 
within  covers  of  best  sellers  and  our  mlUIon-and- 


VERBOTEN  69 

more-circulation  magazines,  only  the  circle  Is  some- 
what more  complicated.  Scripts  are  written  to 
meet  the  prejudices  of  all  moving-picture  patrons; 
stories,  to  meet  the  needs  of  a  particular  type  of 
reader.  And  this  much  must  be  said  for  our  mag- 
azines: The  variety  of  types  has  made  possible 
whatever  untrammelled  literature  we  have.  For 
after  all  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  the  moral 
tone  of  Harper's  and  the  arch-sophistication  of  the 
Smart  Set,  or  between  the  big-business  glorification 
of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  and  the  New  Success 
and  the  artistic  quiet  and  rebelliousness  of  the  Dial 
and  the  Little  Review. 

Whatever  untrammelled  literature  we  have,  how- 
ever, is  httle  enough.  The  tone-givers,  the  guides, 
the  molders  are  the  magazines  of  power  with  pub- 
lic opinion  and  millions  of  dollars  behind  them, 
with  unbreakable  traditional  prejudices  and  taboos. 
And  so  long  as  the  humblest  critic  and  the  highest- 
paid  Institutional  authority  unite  In  upholding  these 
traditional  taboos  as  glittering  marks  of  American- 
ism, public  opinion  will  continue  to  demand  a  litera- 
ture that  is  for  the  most  part  Infantile,  Insipid  and 
lifeless.  The  generations  that  rise  to  pound  the 
typewriter  keys  in  the  production  of  stories  are  for 
the  most  part  imbued  with  this  negative  conception 
of  our  literature  and  unquestionably  the  most  dan- 
gerous Instrument  for  the  perpetuation  of  this 
degrading  conception  is  the  literary  teaching  profes- 


70  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

sion.  Again,  in  not  a  single  textbook  on  story- 
writing  have  I  been  able  to  find  an  intelligent,  fear- 
less analysis  of  our  national  taboos  and  their  effect 
of  sterility  upon  our  literature.  I  have  found 
warnings  and  admonitions  and  scarecrows.  "Thou 
shalt  not!"  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  our  learned 
attitude  on  these  mummifying  influences.  The  vac- 
illating feet  of  the  aspirant  are  directed  toward 
the  proper,  well-trodden  roads  at  the  very  outset, 
and  the  punishment  for  straying  is  stressed  to  the 
point  where  it  requires  a  superhuman  courage  to 
brave  it. 

1.  Optimism 

Our  first  dictate  is  "Thou  shalt  not  be  morbid!" 
Depressing  stuff  may  be  characteristic  of  the  Rus- 
sians, the  Germans,  the  French,  the  Italians,  the 
Scandinavians,  but  not  of  the  Americans.  Ours  is 
a  young  country,  a  free  country,  a  happy  country, 
full  of  the  joy  of  existence.  Ours  is  a  hopeful  peo- 
ple, cheerful  and  gay  and  proud;  glad  to  be  alive. 
"People  have  all  the  gloom  they  want,"  says  the 
editor  of  The  American  Magazine  in  his  "Fourteen 
Points"  to  contributors.  "They  manufacture  it  on 
their  own  premises.  You  cannot  sell  them  gloom. 
What  they  want  to  buy  is  a  cure  for  their  gloom. 
They  don't  want  to  buy  more  gloom."  And  Dr. 
Frank   Crane   in   his   ever-buoyant   style   exclaims: 


VERBOTEN  71 

^^The  Saturday  Evening  Post  and  The  American 
Magazine  have  what  I  call  'good  literature.'  "^ 

Since  salability  is  the  only  criterion  of  worth,  any 
story  that  violates  our  fundamental  optimistic  tone 
is  at  once  intercepted,  revamped,  "improved"  or 
pronounced  hopeless  and  condemned  to  extinction. 
"Not  salable,"  is  a  phrase  as  ominous  as  a  jury's 
"Guilty!"  on  a  charge  of  murder  in  the  first  degree, 
and  the  only  appeal  possible  is  for  the  defendant 
to  plead  a  sudden  seizure  of  passionate  desire  to 
"pack  up  his  troubles  in  his  old  kit  bag  and  smile, 
smile,  smile !"  And  so  the  law  of  supply  and  demand 
operates  once  more.  The  "calamity  howler"  is 
eliminated  and  the  man  or  woman  with  the  "smile 
that  won't  come  off"  gets  to  the  top.  American 
literature  becomes  enriched  by  the  advent  of  another 
"genius"  imbued  with  the  gospel  that  "life  is  great 
fun,  after  all!" 

That  no  literature  can  thrive  on  such  a  barren 
optimism  seems  to  be  a  statement  so  obvious  as  to 
challenge  even  the  mere  ordinary  intelligence  offer- 
ing it.  Yet  pedants  carry  forward  this  optimism- 
tradition  and  preach,  and  lecture,  and  prate  about 
the  spirit  of  America,  and  threaten  and  pun- 
ish and  outlaw  the  few  unfortunate  rebels.  What 
literature  can  a  country  produce  which  refuses  to 
take  even  the  most  timid  peep  at  life  as  it  is,  which 


1  Dr.    Frank    Crane    to    the    Literary    Novice,    An    Interview. 
Writer's  Monthly,  January,   1921. 


72  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

shuts  its  eyes  in  very  horror  at  the  most  fundamental 
problems  of  the  land,  which  does  not  brood,  con- 
template or  inquire,  which  does  not  know  the  bene- 
diction of  a  tear  or  the  relief  of  a  sigh?  Can  a 
steady  diet  of  sugar  produce  anything  more  invigor- 
ating than  diabetes?  And  literary  sugar  is  what  we 
think  and  preach  and  worship.  All  heroines  are 
pretty;  all  heroes  succeed;  all  complications  are 
solved;  wedding  bells  ring;  promotions  are  given 
out;  only  bad  people  die  young;  the  good  live  to  a 
mellow  age  of  four  score  and  ten;  life  is  a  fairy- 
tale in  which  all  the  fairies  are  sweet  young  things 
waving  magic  wands  over  honest  young  brokers  of 
their  choice;  the  world,  and  America  especially,  is 
a  Vale  of  Tempe  where  limousines  are  passed  out 
as  the  reward  of  virtue  and  endeavor  and  where 
successful  matches  are  consummated. 

Our  writers  must  be  either  inanimate  machines 
or  sorry  human  beings  trained  to  suppress  their 
instincts  and  moods.  They  must  be  on  their  guard 
not  to  succumb  to  the  "blues";  quick  to  inhibit  any 
sad  reflection  or  discouraging  thought.  "If  you 
can't  see  the  sun  is  shining,"  wrote  one  editor  very 
bluntly,  rejecting  a  "depressing"  story,  "take  Epsom 
salts  and  sleep  it  over."  And  whether  they  are 
drowsy  or  not,  sleep  it  over  our  writers  must.  Those 
who  suffer  with  insomnia  find  their  good  neighbors 
either  snoring  peacefully  or  stamping  about  in 
infuriated   protest.      Our   writers    must    sift    their 


VERBOTEN  73 

experience;  if  it  is  tragic  or  insufficiently  uplifting 
they  must  dispatch  it  to  oblivion.  It  is  really  most 
advisable  not  to  draw  upon  experience  at  all.  Not 
of  such  stuff  can  optimistic  fiction  be  made.  For 
is  there  life  without  tears  and  heartache  and  doubt; 
without  innumerable  deaths  of  precious  fragile 
dreams;  without  graying  of  heads;  without  per- 
plexity? Hence  arises  what  Van  Wyck  Brooks  calls 
''the  doctrine  of  the  fear  of  experience.  ...  It 
assumes  that  experience  is  not  the  stuff  of  life  but 
something  essentially  meaningless;  and  not  merely 
meaningless  but  an  obstruction  which  retards  and 
complicates  our  real  business  of  getting  on  in  the 
world  and  getting  up  in  the  world,  and  which  must, 
therefore,  be  ignored  and  forgotten  and  evaded 
and  beaten  down  by  every  means  in  our  power."^ 

Here  again  the  inconsistency  in  our  theory  of 
optimistic  fiction  is  glaring.  We  shriek  anathemas 
at  any  native  product  that  repudiates  it,  yet  we  bow 
with  respect  to  importations.  We  acclaim  all  the 
morbid  geniuses  of  Europe;  we  accord  their  works 
places  of  special  privilege  in  our  curricula;  we  con- 
sider it  a  mark  of  culture  to  mention  the  titles  of  at 
least  a  half-dozen  depressing  books.  Even  our 
most  respectable  magazines  are  proud  on  occasion 
to  publish  a  story  by  an  eminent  European  author 
with  the  flamboyant  legend  placed  upon  it  or  boxed 
in  the  center  of  its  first  page  by  the  editor:  "No 

2  Letters  and  Leadership. 


74  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

one  but  Gorki  (or  Maeterlink,  or  D'AnnunzIo,  or 
D.  H.  Lawrence,  or  whoever  else  It  might  be)  would 
have  the  courage  to  write  a  story  such  as  this,  and 

no  magazine  in  America  but  The would 

have  the  courage  to  publish  it."  The  same  legend 
is  placed  sometimes  upon  the  work  of  a  native 
writer,  but  after  reading  the  story  one  finds  that 
either  the  writer  did  not  dare,  after  all,  or  that  the 
editor  of  the  brave  magazine  edited  the  contribu- 
tion; that  both  the  writer  and  the  worthy  editor  had 
been  so  frightened  at  the  mere  flap  of  a  wing  that 
they  had  to  offer  an  apology  for  attempting  to  soar. 
This  inconsistency  is  particularly  reflected  in  our 
current  criticism  and  literary  textbooks.  With  the 
same  breath  a  reviewer  will  praise  Dostoyevski  and 
chastise  some  native  youngster  for  his  horrible 
morbidity.  In  the  same  chapter  the  text  will  refer 
to  Chekhov  and  Maupassant  and  Zola  and  Poe  with 
almost  cringing  reverence  and  eloquently  preach 
the  gospel  of  cheap  optimism  as  the  supreme 
message  of  the  story  writer.  And  the  young  would- 
be  procures  copies  of  the  great  masters,  reads  them, 
and  comes  back  perplexed.  "Why  do  they  write 
about  such  horrid  things?"  asks  one  young  student. 
I  look  into  her  large,  innocent  eyes  and  smile.  The 
Great  Creator  must  have  been  in  a  diplomatic  mood 
when  he  invented  a  smile.  I  glance  down  at  my 
copy  of  The  Literary  News,  lying  on  my  desk  and 
note  that  an  editor  of  a  prominent  and  liberally- 


VERBOTEN  75 

paying  magazine  is  In  the  market  for  "stories  of 
rapid  action — cheery  short  stories,  encouraging, 
helpful — the  kind  that  makes  the  world  better,"  and 
I  proceed  to  discuss  how  this  kind  of  story  Is 
written.     .     .     . 

2.  Sex 

Of  all  our  taboos  none  has  contributed  so  large 
a  share  in  keeping  our  literature  swathed  In  baby 
blankets  as  that  on  sex.  In  its  essence  It  is  merely 
a  direct  irradiation  of  taboo  No.  1  on  optimism. 
If  everything  in  the  universe  is  good  and  beautiful 
and  holy  and  the  writer's  business  is  to  chant  in- 
cessant halleluiahs,  then  sex  is  all  of  these  and  must 
be  treated  reverently.  Its  unsavory  aspects  as  well 
as  those  leading  to  unhapplness  must  be  passed  by, 
and  since  in  the  muddled  world  we  are  living  in  sex 
has  felt  most  severely  the  combined  forces  of  big- 
otry, suppression  and  inhibition,  of  pathologic  social 
and  moral  conditions,  its  aspects  are  most  frequently 
unsavory  and  unhappy  and  therefore  must  be  either 
ignored  entirely  or  made  savory  and  happy.  We 
have  a  hoary  phrase  perpetually  playing  upon  our 
glib  lips — it  is  to  the  effect  that  we  are  a  "clean- 
living,  moral  people."  The  phrase  itself  has  long 
lost  its  meaning,  even  to  the  most  uninformed  of 
citizens,  but  it  has  remained  a  sacred  fetish  forever, 
it  seems. 

Again  it  Is  not  in  the  total  abstaining  from  any 


76  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

treatment  of  sex  that  our  taboo  is  expressed,  but  in 
our  peculiar  angle  of  treatment.  Total  abstaining 
were  indeed  impossible,  for  any  literature,  and 
least  of  all  for  our  literature.  The  truth  is  that  ours 
is,  in  the  main,  essentially  a  sex-literature — largely 
because  of  our  ''reverent"  attitude.  Strong  ele- 
mental forces  long  suppressed  erupt  in  irrepres- 
sible, if  furtive,  curiosity.  No  country  on  earth  can 
boast  of  as  many  periodicals  specializing  in  the 
risque,  the  sexually-sensational,  the  cheaply  sugges- 
tive, as  the  land  of  the  "clean-living."  The  fact  is 
incontrovertible.  Where  there  is  a  continued  supply 
there  must  be  a  continued  demand.  Our  publishers 
know  their  market.  Even  the  titles  of  a  host  of 
our  periodicals  exploit,  not  too  artistically,  this 
crude  reaction  of  a  sex-conscious  people.  "Saucy 
Stories,"  "Breezy  Stories,"  "Snappy  Stories,"  "Live 
Stories,"  "Droll  Stories,"  "The  Parisienne,"  "True 
Stories,"  "The  Folhes,"  "TeUing  Tales,"  "Secrets," 
"I  Confess,"  "True  Confessions,"  "High  Life," 
"Hot  Dog," — these  are  some  of  the  titles  that  wink 
mischievously  at  the  purchaser  timid  with  guilt. 
But  the  purchaser  is  rarely  pleased  with  his  dissipa- 
tion. He  finds  the  wine  exceedingly  mild.  Most 
of  the  stories  under  the  suggestive  cover  bearing  the 
inviting  title  and  a  still  more  inviting  pretty  girl, 
usually  attired  in  very  becoming  negligey  are,  after 
all,  "clean." 

And  this  "cleanness"  is  the  characteristic  blight 


VERBOTEN  77 

of  nine-tenths  of  our  entire  literature.  It  is  vulgar 
with  the  lowest  kind  of  sex-consciousness  but  it 
doesn't  go  "too  far."  It  is  the  "cleanness"  of  our 
moving  pictures.  Is  there  any  reason  why  a  pro- 
duction entitled  "Du  Barry"  in  Europe  should  be 
rechristened  to  read  "Passion"  for  American  exhibi- 
tion? Is  there  any  reason  why  Barrie's  "Admirable 
Crichton"  should  become  "Male  and  Female"  as 
a  photoplay?  Is  there  any  reason  for  such  titles 
as  "Sex,"  "The  Restless  Sex,"  "His  Wedded  Wife," 
"The  First  Night,"  "The  She  Woman,"  "The  Leop- 
ard  Woman,"  "Wedded  Husbands,"  "Why  Wives 
Go  Wrong,"  "Forbidden  Fruit,"  "The  Primrose 
Path,"  "What  Happened  to  Rosa,"  "Why  Change 
Your  Wife?"  "The  Woman  Untamed,"  etc.,  etc? 
It  surely  does  not  require  an  erudite  psychoanalyst 
to  find  the  reason  for  this  avalanche  of  sugges- 
tiveness. 

Perhaps,  if  they  deemed  it  wise  to  speak,  our 
motion-picture  producers  could  shed  some  light  on 
the  subject.  Seemingly  their  opinion  of  our  "clean- 
living,  moral  people"  is  not  very  flattering.  And 
their  judgment  is  substantially  founded  upon  the 
generous  reports  they  receive  from  the  distributing 
exchanges. 

Here,  too,  carefully  as  the  titles  are  selected  the 
pictures  themselves  are  "clean."  If  they  were  not, 
the  various  Boards  of  Censorship  would  have  seen 
to  it  that  they  become  so.     At  most  a  director  will 


78  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

manage  to  show  the  heroine  plunging  into  her 
morning's  rose-water  bath,  as  in  "Male  and 
Female,"  for  instance,  or  an  exotic  harem  partially 
disrobing  for  a  cold  dip  into  the  perfumed  waters  of 
the  Rajah's  pool,  as  in  "Kismet."  Whether  the 
scenes  are  vitally  necessary  to  the  unfolding  of  the 
plot  is  immaterial.  They  constitute  an  irresistible 
attraction  in  themselves,  and  must  be  smuggled  in, 
if  possible.  A  couple  of  feet  of  nakedness  results 
in  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  advertising. 

What  is  true  of  the  moving  pictures  is  equally 
true  of  our  spoken  stage.  Think  of  "Twin  Beds" 
and  "Up  in  Mabel's  Room"  and  "Parlor,  Bedroom 
and  Bath"  and  "Mary's  Ankle"  and  "Nighty, 
Nighty"  and  "Scrambled  Wives"  and  "Ladies' 
Night  in  a  Turkish  Bath"  and  "Getting  Gertie's 
Garter"  and  the  various  "Follies"  and  "Scandals" 
and  a  hundred-and-one  other  titles  which  were  surely 
chosen  for  a  purpose — the  same  purpose  which 
impelled  some  years  ago  the  manager  of  the  old 
Academy  of  Music  in  New  York  to  advertise  a  stock 
company  production  of  Daudet's  "Sapho"  as  the 
"greatest  immoral  play  ever  written."  And  again 
the  plays  themselves  are  not  remotely  as  licentious 
as  the  titles  would  intimate. 

What,  then,  is  this  "cleanness"  of  ours?  What 
are  its  impositions  and  how  far  can  they  be 
stretched?  The  answer  is  simple  and  more  than  a 
trifle      sad.     Our      "cleanness"      excludes     serious 


VERBOTEN  79 

thought.  ^'Something  audacious  suits  us,  but  noth- 
ing salacious,"  writes  one  editor  of  a  well-known 
publication  of  the  frothy  type.  "Salacious"  stands 
for  thought,  reflection,  analysis.  A  little  sugges- 
tiveness,  a  hint,  a  double-edged  joke,  a  farcical  situa- 
tion, a  vulgar  thrust,  will  do.  But  a  lieep,  sincere 
analysis,  a  fearless  uncovering  of  a  cowering  con- 
science— that  is  salacious,  immoral,  lewd,  unclean. 
That  accounts  for  the  free  and  open  dissemination 
of  so  much  debasing,  lurid  stuff  and  the  hypocritical 
suppression  of  Dreiser  and  Cabell.  That  accounts 
for  the  popularity  of  Bertha  M.  Clay  et  al.  and  the 
unpopularity  of  Sherwood  Anderson  et  al.  Sex  is  a 
fit  subject  to  jest  about,  to  inject  breezily  as  a  gently- 
naughty  stimulant.  Sex  as  an  elemental  force  which 
shapes  the  lives  of  men  and  women,  which  actuates 
their  struggles  in  this  terrestrial  sphere  of  ours, 
making  for  success  or  failure,  for  happiness  or  de- 
spair, for  sinner  or  saint,  is  vile,  lascivious,  and 
therefore  taboo. 

The  literary  teaching  profession  has  not  passed 
this  degrading  scene  unnoticed.  It  has  broken  up  In 
two  camps.  The  great  mass  of  instructors  have 
simply  adopted  the  position  that  a  writer  must  give 
whatever  is  demanded  of  him.  Would  a  tailor  re- 
fuse to  accept  an  order  calling  for  a  fabric  he  per- 
sonally does  not  approve  of  and  a  fashion  he 
detests?  Granted  that  this  Is  not  a  particularly 
lofty  conception  of  literary  art,  it  is  still  less  perni- 


80  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

cious  than  the  conception  held  by  the  smaller  group 
of  so-called  idealists  in  the  profession.  To  these 
the  sex  aspect  of  our  literature  calls  for  stormy  de- 
nunciation. They  would  impress  upon  the  future 
writer  the  sanctity  of  his  mission.  The  pen  must 
not  be  polluted.  Sex  must  be  left  alone  entirely. 
The  moral  tone  must  be  preserved  in  all  productions. 
Laws  for  the  ruthless  suppression  of  the  unclean 
must  be  fought  for  and  their  enactment  obtained. 
What  these  honest  Puritans  cannot  understand 
is  that  the  entire  class  of  bawdy,  sex-reeking  litera- 
ture is  a  product  of  the  very  laws  they  have  been 
fortunate  enough  to  have  enacted;  that  the  complete 
abolition  of  these  laws  and  the  absolute  cessation 
from  persecution  in  the  interests  of  morality  of 
any  expression  of  sex  would  purge  our  literature  of 
the  curse  as  nothing  else.  If  any  one  could  pur- 
chase a  mature,  intelligent  literary  expression  of 
the  mysterious  passion  that  animates  nature  and 
moves  the  world,  the  profane  effusions  of  shriveled 
minds  would  appear  shocking  and  abhorrent  by  com- 
parison. All  literature  that  has  ever  been  written 
has  dealt  directly  or  indirectly  with  the  relation  of 
men  and  women — for  the  very  trite  reason  that  all 
life  that  has  ever  been  lived  has  been  the  life  of  this 
relation  of  men  and  women.  To  place  the  yellow 
ticket  of  evil  upon  this  relation  as  a  literary  sub- 
ject is  to  degrade  it  beyond  words  of  contempt. 
The  prevailing  spectacle  of  our  literary  sewage  is 


VERBOTEN  81 

perfectly  natural:  the  thought  of  uncleanness 
wrapped  around  the  stuff  of  life  is  bound  to  pollute 
it. 

But  the  pernicious  influence  of  this  immoral  taboo 
goes  beyond  its  direct  inhibition  of  the  most  legit- 
imate of  themes.  It  perpetuates  an  aesthetic  lit- 
erary tenet  which  is  a  relic  of  the  Age  of  Darkness. 
It  is  to  the  effect  that  the  morality  or  unmorality  of 
its  contents  determines  the  value  of  a  literary  pro- 
duction. "It  is  a  shame  that  such  splendid  writing 
should  be  wasted  on  such  an  atrocious  theme,"  said 
a  sweet  little  lady  student  apropos  Sherwood  An- 
derson's "The  Other  Woman. "^  The  remark  at 
once  characterized  her  as  a  member  of  the  Second- 
Grade  Bigots.  The  First-Grade  Bigots  would  not 
permit  themselves  to  see  any  excellences  in  a  work 
so  pronouncedly  unorthodox.  When  cornered,  the 
little  lady  admitted  that  there  might  be  sound  psy- 
chology in  Anderson's  story — and  a  large  measure 
of  unsavory  truth.  "But  why  choose  such  horrid 
themes  when  there  are  so  many  nice,  clean  ones?" 
It  is  the  cry  of  all  Pollyanna-nurtured  readers.  It's 
the  cry  of  the  author  of  "Pollyanna"  herself.  "Is 
there,  then,  no  human  experience  that  deals  with  the 
good,  the  happy,  the  beautiful?"  she  asks,  in  a  cir- 
cular issued  by  her  publishers.  "Are  joy,  faith  and 
purity  utterly  illogical?     Is  only  the  thunder-cloud 

3  Little  Re<vieiv,  May-June,  1920.  Also  included  in  E.  J.  O'Brien's 
"Best  Short  Stories  of  1920,"  Small,  Maynard  &  Company,  and  in 
Anderson's  "The  Triumph  of  the  Egg."     B.  W.  Huebsch. 


82  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

real? — the  sunshine  a  sham?"  In  such  cases  argu- 
ment is  impossible.  The  criterion  of  moral  and 
optimistic  content  is  deep-rooted  and  well-nourished 
by  authority.  Is  it  not  largely  this  same  criterion 
that  for  more  than  a  half  century  prevented  the 
acceptance  by  the  Judges  of  Walt  Whitman  as  a 
poet,  and  that  is  excluding  the  name  of  Theo- 
dore Dreiser  from  its  rightful  place  in  our  scholarly 
histories  of  the  modern  American  novel? 

To  counteract  this  blind  perpetuation  of  a  falla- 
cious doctrine  demands  a  complete  severance  with 
old  school  criticism  and  old-age  pedagogy.  Not 
until  authority-worship  is  mightily  shaken  can  this 
be  accomplished.  But  that  would  be  a  hopeless  task 
to  undertake.  The  great  mass  must  have  and  will 
have  its  Great  Authorities  to  bow  to.  It  is  easier 
than  to  depend  upon  one's  own  critical  faculties. 
Besides,  habit  has  become  second  nature.  We  have 
always  been  taught  that  knowledge  is  merely  to 
know  where  to  find  what  we  want  to  know.  No, 
we  must  be  merciful;  our  literary  apostles  must 
remain.  But  among  them  there  are  those  that  are 
blind  with  senility  and  those  that  are  glowing  with 
fresh  vision.  Let  us  follow  the  more  musical  of  the 
new  criers  until  they,  in  their  turn,  reach  their  dot- 
age and  truth  turns  to  ashes  in  their  toothless 
mouths.  In  no  other  way  can  we  hope  to  uproot 
the  puerile  beliefs  that  art  can  be  judged  by  its 
optimistic  or  uplifting  message,  by  its  morality,  or 


VERBOTEN  83 

by  any  other  of,  what  Joel  Elias  Spuigarn  terms,  the 
"Seven  confusions."  We  have  not  yet  reached  the 
stage  where  the  relativity  of  the  term  "morality" 
can  be  discussed  with  impunity  and  to  any  consider- 
able advantage.  But  we  can  bring  to  bear  upon  a 
rising  generation  of  readers  and  writers  all  the  force 
of  our  warm  logic  to  combat  the  notion  that  any 
standard  of  morality,  no  matter  how  sublime,  has 
any  determining  value  in  art.  We  can  insist  that  a 
story  might  be  entirely  devoid  of  any  moral  signifi- 
cance and  yet  be  an  immortal  masterpiece;  that  the 
whole  notion  is  merely  another  one  of  the  confusions 
we  have  inherited  from  an  age  which  was  too  busy 
developing  the  raw  resources  of  a  vast  young  con- 
tinent— a  task  which  necessitated  the  invocation  of 
Providential  aid — to  pay  attention  to  literature. 

"To  say  that  poetry  (or  any  other  art)  is  moral 
or  immoral  is  as  meaningless  as  to  say  that  an 
equilateral  triangle  is  moral  and  an  isosceles  triangle 
immoral.  Surely  we  must  realize  the  absurdity  of 
testing  anything  by  a  standard  which  does  not  belong 
to  it  or  a  purpose  for  which  it  was  not  intended. 
Imagine  these  whiffs  of  conversation  at  a  dinner 
table :  'This  cauliflower  would  be  excellent  if  it 
had  only  been  prepared  in  accordance  with  interna- 
tional law.'  'Do  you  know  why  my  cook's  pastry  is 
so  good?  He  has  never  told  a  lie  or  seduced  a 
woman.'  But  why  multiply  obvious  examples? 
We  do  not  concern  ourselves  with  morals  when  we 


84  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

test  the  engineer's  bridge  or  the  scientist's  re- 
searches; indeed  we  go  farther,  and  say  that  it  is 
the  moral  duty  of  the  scientist  to  disregard  morals 
in  his  search  for  truth.  As  a  man  he  may  be  judged 
by  moral  standards,  but  the  truth  of  his  conclusions 
can  only  be  judged  by  the  standard  of  science.  .  .  . 
Art  is  expression,  and  poets  succeed  or  fail  by  their 
success  or  failure  in  completely  and  perfectly 
expressing  themselves.  If  the  ideals  they  express 
are  not  the  ideals  we  admire  most,  we  must  blame 
not  the  poets  but  ourselves;  in  the  world  where 
morals  count  we  have  failed  to  give  them  the 
proper  material  out  of  which  to  rear  a  nobler  edi- 
fice. To  separate  art  and  morality  is  not  to  destroy 
moral  values  but  to  augment  them — to  give  them 
increased  powers  and  a  new  freedom  in  the  realm 
in  which  they  have  the  right  to  reign.' 


1)4 


3.  Religion 

It  is  literally  true  that  American  literature  is  not 
irreverent.  The  penalty  for  meddling  with  religion 
in  any  unconventional  way  is  contemptuous  obscur- 
ity. But  meddling  with  religion  in  a  way  that 
brings  out  its  blessings  to  humanity  is  praiseworthy 
and  leads  to  opulence  and  glory.  For  that  reason 
nine-tenths  of  our  literature  has  a  strain  of  religious 
righteousness    running    through    it.     In    the    main 

*  Joel  Elias   Spingarn,   "The   Seven  Arts   and  The   Seven   Con- 
fusions," Seven  Arts,  March,  1917. 


VERBOTEN  85 

the  specters  of  Cotton  Mather  and  Jonathan 
Edwards  still  hover  over  our  literary  output,  Impart- 
ing to  It  a  theological  tint.  Our  fictlonlsts  are  still 
obsessed  with  the  Idea  that  a  story  or  a  novel  must 
preach,  must  Instill  the  right  kind  of  Ideals,  must 
exert  a  redeeming  Influence  upon  Its  reader.  To  be 
sure,  the  experienced  ones  among  them  are  fully 
aware  of  the  dangers  of  obvious  moralizing,  but 
they  have  mastered  the  devious  ways  of  preaching 
without  arousing  the  reader's  suspicion  that  he 
Is  being  preached  to. 

It  Is  this  last  point — the  devious  ways  of  unsus- 
pected preaching — that  my  profession  Is  concerned 
with.  Either  we  are  altogether  silent  on  the  sub- 
ject of  religion  In  literature,  deeming  It  too  ticklish 
a  subject  upon  which  to  commit  ourselves,  or  we 
are  zealous  in  our  efforts  to  perpetuate  the  tradition 
that  literature  must  complement  the  work  of  the 
church,  only  in  a  less  outspoken  way.  Perhaps  we 
do  not  do  It  consciously  but  the  results  obtained 
are  the  same.  We  merely  advise  students  as  to 
what  subjects  may  be  exploited  and  what  subjects 
may  not.  Surely  a  subject  bordering  on  the  atheis- 
tic could  never  be  made  salable;  not  more  than  two 
or  three  periodicals  would  be  open  to  such  a  story — 
and  these  of  the  obscure,  ''freaky"  kind.  Without 
a  doubt  even  such  a  mild  story  as  Balzac's  "An 
Atheist's  Mass"  could  never  have  seen  the  light  of 
publication  in  an  American  periodical.     The  fact 


86  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

that  the  hero  remains  unconverted  to  the  end  would 
be  fatal.  We  may  write  a  story  about  an  atheist, 
and  have  written  such,  but  in  our  story,  when  the 
denouement  comes,  the  hero  must  exclaim  to  the 
assembled  multitude,  that  he  had  tried  to  live  with- 
out God  and  had  found  it  unprofitable.  The  fact 
that  there  might  be  some  poor  wretch  of  a  hero  in 
this  queer  wide  world  who  would  not  issue  such  a 
proclamation  does  not  detract  from  the  urgency  of 
such  a  denouement.  It  is  one  of  our  devious  ways; 
without  it  the  story  can  hope  to  travel  no  farther 
than  the  return-to-author  basket.  The  characters 
we  create  must  ultimately  come  to  know  God  and 
the  church — or  they  never  come  to  know  the  reader. 
It  is  doubtful  if  an  American  Flaubert  could  hope 
for  as  cordial  a  reception  of  an  atheistic  character 
of  his  as  the  French  have  accorded  the  mediocre 
M.  Homais  of  "Madame  Bovary"  fame. 

It  is  far  from  my  purpose  to  leave  the  implication 
that  literature  should  preach  atheism;  but  neither 
should  it  preach  religion,  theology,  or  anything  else, 
for  that  matter,  except  in  so  far  as  life  itself  is  a 
sermon  to  whomever  it  pleases  to  view  it  as  such. 
"As  a  rule  we  may  say  that  nothing  in  the  world 
improves  one  less  than  sermonizing  books  and  con- 
versations; nothing  is  more  wearisome,  quite  apart 
from  the  fact  that  nothing  is  more  inartistic.  .  .  . 
We  do  not  demand  of  an  author  that  he  should 
work   to   make    us    better.     .     .     .     All    that    we 


VERBOTEN  87 

can  demand  of  him  Is  that  he  work  conscien- 
tiously."^ The  moment  an  author  stoops  to  uplift 
us  he  loses  his  balance  as  an  artistic  observer, 
recorder,  and  interpreter. 

The  attitude  of  our  literature  toward  religion  is 
based  on  a  churchy  interpretation  of  life  and  char- 
acter which  was  unconsciously  but  none  the  less  com- 
prehensively expressed  in  a  magazine  article  by  Dr. 
Frank  Crane.  ''Church  people,"  he  wrote,  "as  a 
rule,  pay  their  debts,  observe  the  decencies  of  life, 
are  clean  of  mind  and  body,  cultivate  those  qualities 
that  make  for  a  successful  and  contented  life,  and 
get  along  together  peacefully.  And,  as  a  rule,  the 
embezzlers,  thugs,  drunkards,  harlots,  rascals,  adul- 
terers, gamblers,  and  swindlers  do  not  cultivate 
church-going  to  any  great  extent."^ 

This  is  a  safe  and  sane  doctrine  to  embrace  when 
writing  fiction  for  the  popular  magazines.  Our 
editors,  almost  universally,  have  embraced  it,  and 
even  though  the  Reverend  Doctor  specifically  states 
that  he  speaks  of  people  "as  a  rule,"  which  would 
permit  of  exceptions,  editors  at  large  will  not  recog- 
nize the  existence  of  such  exceptions.  Truth  does 
not  count  and  experience  is  an  illusion.  If  a  writer 
has  in  his  life  had  the  misfortune  of  coming  across 
a  man  or  woman  who  was  kind,  charitable,  gentle, 
moral,  and  noble  and  yet  instead  of  being  affiliated 

^  George  Brandes,  On  Reading. 

^  "All   Else   Will   Pass,"  People's   Favorite   Magazine,   January, 
1921. 


88  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

with  a  church  was  a  member  of  the  Secular  League 
and  a  subscriber  to  the  Truth  Seeker  he  would  best 
suppress  the  latter  two  points.  If  a  writer  has  read 
statistics  of  extra-generous  donations  made  to  vari- 
ous church  funds  and  has  found  among  the  names 
of  donors  not  a  few  of  universally  notorious  embez- 
zlers, he  must  ignore  the  fact,  if  only  in  the  interests 
of  his  career.  His  motto  must  be:  Never  write 
anything  about  church  that  could  not  be  turned  into 
an  advertisement  of  the  institution.  If  the  motto 
conflicts  with  life,  scratch  life. 

And  yet  religion,  like  sex,  is  one  of  the  basic 
forces  of  life;  it  has  helped  to  shape  the  course  of 
human  history  and  civilization.  To  deny  the  artist 
the  prerogative  to  touch  upon  it  unless  it  be  in 
praise  is  to  deny  him  the  means  to  probe  the  human 
soul.  To  compel  him  to  accept  any  institution  as 
infallible  and  therefore  beyond  question  of  imper- 
fection is  to  fetter  his  spirit.  That  a  man  who  is  a 
respected  member  of  a  respected  church  cannot  be 
a  thief  in  his  business  life  or  a  brute  at  home  is  a 
more  prostituting  doctrine,  the  more  so  if  not  ac- 
tually believed  in  but  adopted  for  commercial  pur- 
poses only,  than  any  harlot  was  ever  guided  by, 
because  it  is  so  flagrantly  contrary  to  truth.  That 
the  call  of  sex  can  never  prove  stronger  than  the 
holiest  of  religious  precepts  is  a  malicious  canon  of 
hypocritical  dogmatism.  This  is  the  natural  stuff 
of  literature — the  dramatic  conflicts   and   seeming 


VERBOTEN  89 

paradoxes,  physical,  psychic  and  Intellectual,  the 
eternal  clash  of  nature  and  dogma,  of  passion  and 
Idea,  of  man  and  the  world. 

Puny  fledgelings  come  to  us  for  Instruction  In 
aerial  literary  navigation  and  we  look  In  the  tome 
of  Thou  Shalt  Nots  and  clip  their  weak  little  wings. 
"Never  dare  to  lift  yourself  more  than  a  yard  above 
the  earth,"  we  admonish;  "and  you'll  find  It  easier 
if  you  use  this  trick  and  that,"  we  add.  If,  per- 
chance, one  of  them  after  awhile  finds  the  fawning 
breath  of  the  earth  too  close  and  spreads  Its  wings 
and  begins  to  soar  up  Into  the  clear  ether  we  shrug 
our  shoulders  compassionately  and  say  to  the  rest: 
"Another  young  bird  gone  wrong."  It  has  broken 
the  limits  of  our  taboos;  It  has  tasted  the  wine  of 
pure  ozone;  It  has  heard  the  call  of  exploration;  It 
has  turned  Irreverent.  Should  It  succeed  In  grow- 
ing a  few  dazzling  feathers  by  the  time  It  comes 
back  In  sight  we  may  meet  It  with  music  and  shout  to 
It  the  hospitality  of  our  gardens — as  a  mark  of  our 
ability  to  appreciate  fine  feathers;  but  more  fre- 
quently we  let  It  starve  to  death  and  keep  the  music 
for  a  touching  funeral.  During  their  lifetime  we 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Irreverent.     .     .     . 

4.  Social  and  Political  Prohleuis 

No  literature  Is  more  afraid  of  a  courageous  pre- 
sentation of  the  social  welter  which  America,  In 
cr  mmon  with  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Is  undergoing 


90  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

in  this  age  of  reconstruction,  than  American  litera- 
ture. Not  that  it  entirely  fails  to  touch  upon  the 
mighty  problems  that  have  shaken  our  national  life, 
but  it  still  clings  to  an  ancient  sense  of  delicacy  and 
an  orthodox  point  of  view  which  determines  what 
may  and  may  not  be  said.  Whether  a  writer  really 
subscribes  to  the  point  of  view  which  colors  nearly 
all  of  our  efforts  is  immaterial;  in  order  to  sell  his 
product  he  must  adopt  it,  irrespective  of  any  pro- 
testing personal  scruples  he  might  feel.  Thus  we 
find  our  literature,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  and 
highly  unprofitable  part,  expressing  no  more  ad- 
vanced views  on  the  social  phenomena  of  the  day 
than  our  forefathers  held,  and  most  frequently  less 
advanced. 

The  editor  of  The  Coming  Nation,  discussing  the 
kind  of  stories  that  are  not  wanted  by  film  com- 
panies, mentions,  among  others,  stories  "where  the 
hero  arises  and  makes  a  soap-box  speech  on  Social- 
ism converting  all  by-standers."^  This  statement 
applies  with  equal  force  to  our  magazine  fiction  as 
well.  That  no  respectable  editor  of  a  fiction  peri- 
odical will  take  such  stories  is  a  fact  universally 
known  among  people  acquainted  with  prevailing 
policies  of  our  magazines.  There  would  be  nothing 
sinister  in  this  policy,  it  would  even  be  highly  laud- 
able, were  it  based  on  the  logical  assumption  that 
men's  minds  are  not  so  easily  swayed  and  that  there- 

"^  Writing  the  Photoplay,  Esenwein  &  Leeds. 


VERBOTEN  91 

fore  no  audience  of  by-standers  can  be  converted  by 
a  single  speech.  But  it  is  based  on  no  such  rea- 
soning. The  fact  is  that  the  story  depicting  a 
speaker  converting  by  a  few  eloquent  phrases, 
let  us  say,  a  body  of  strikers,  to  the  employer's 
point  of  view,  impelling  them  to  forsake  their 
scheming  leaders,  tainted  by  European  gold, 
of  course,  and  return  to  work  will  and  does  find 
a  ready  market.  Even  the  lack  of  story  values 
are  frequently  overlooked  where  such  a  Active  inci- 
dent occurs.  The  greatest  of  our  national  weeklies 
and  monthlies  will  open  their  columns  to  the  padded 
dissertation  in  story  disguise  on  the  unreasonable- 
ness of  workingmen,  or  the  inefficiency  of  govern- 
ment control  of  industries,  or  the  blessings  of  a  Big 
Business  Administration. 

What  really  determines  the  policy  of  exclusion  of 
certain  topics  or  angles  of  presentation  is  the  safe- 
guarding of  the  interests  of  the  big  advertisers  and 
the  personal  prejudices  of  the  publishers.  Our 
experienced  writers,  as  well  as  the  instructors  of 
student-writers  who  know  their  business,  know  these 
prejudices  perfectly.  They  know  that  popular  views 
"get  by"  even  if  the  artistry  is  not  so  very  obstru- 
sive.  They  know  that  unless  one  can  fall  in  with 
the  established  views  of  the  great  majority  it  is 
best  to  leave  social  and  political  problems  alone 
and  to  write  about  the  South  Seas,  or  Alaska,  or  the 
romantic  story  of  John  Jones,  Jr.,  a  son  of  a  village 


92  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

blacksmith,  who,  after  many  thrilling  hardships 
finally  married  Ivy  Van  Schyler,  the  pampered  heir- 
ess of  noble  lineage  and  a  huge  block  of  sound  rail- 
road stock.  They  even  know  such  small  details  as 
that  if  a  hero  uses  soap,  it  is  best  not  to  mention  it 
by  an  existing  brand,  for  it  may  offend  advertisers 
trying  to  fasten  upon  the  public  rival  brands;  that 
''talking  machine"  is  safer  than  "Victrola"  or  "Gra- 
fonola"  or  any  other  patented  name;  that,  in  a 
word,  no  free  advertising  be  given  any  company, 
thus  causing  other  advertisers  to  complain.  They 
know  that  it  is  dangerous  to  make  a  character  in- 
timate that  his  health  has  been  impaired  as  a  result 
of  drinking  too  much  ginger-ale,  or  taking  headache 
powders,  or  yeast,  or  tobacco,  or  anything  else,  for 
that  matter,  that  advertisers  sell.  It  makes  no 
difference  whether  a  writer  has  accumulated  a  fund 
of  personal  observation  to  corroborate  his  state- 
ment. There  are  people  who  are  trying  to  sell 
these  products  and  will  surely  lodge  a  protest  with 
the  advertising  manager  of  the  publication  in  which 
such  a  story  appears.  In  fact,  numerous  cases 
where  such  inadvertent  remarks  have  resulted  in 
diminished  advertising  space  are  on  record. 

It  is  to  the  interest  of  these  same  all-powerful 
advertisers  to  see  that  no  aspersions  be  cast  in  our 
magazine  fiction  upon  the  inalienable  rights  and 
dignities  of  Business  and  that  no  dangerous  views 
be  expressed  which  might  sway  a  vigilantly  guarded 


VERBOTEN  93 

public  mind  In  undesirable  directions.  Existing 
social  and  political  Institutions  may  be  defended  In 
our  fiction  but  not  attacked  or  criticized;  their 
merits  may  be  extolled,  but  their  demerits  must  not 
be  betrayed  to  an  innocent  world.  Private  prop- 
erty is  sacred;  the  State  is  always  right — except 
when  it  attempts  to  Interfere  with  Property;  then  a 
thinly  veiled  story  decrying  this  interference  as 
autocratic,  tyrannous  and  un-American  might  get  by 
and  bring  a  fair  price.  Progress  is  a  generality 
that  affects  us  but  little ;  the  laws  of  change  are  sus- 
pended when  applied  to  our  literary  reactions  to 
our  social  life.  Other  nations  may  develop  new 
schools  of  fictlonists,  young,  virile,  boldly  speaking 
their  minds  on  the  moot  problems  of  the  day.  We 
have  no  room  for  such  impudence.  Our  literature 
is  "pure,"  level-headed,  conservative.  Some  Iso- 
lated muck-rakers  appear  here  and  there,  but  we 
give  them  no  outlet  for  their  muck-raking,  and  they 
must  either  reform  or  perish  or,  at  best,  when  we 
are  helpless  to  prevent  it,  get  a  measure  of  barren 
notoriety. 

An  army  officer,  an  advanced  student,  once 
handed  in  a  splendidly  written  story  of  army  life, 
in  which  he  gave  a  graphic  portrayal  of  court-mar- 
tial proceedings.  The  apathy  and  criminal  noncha- 
lance with  which  helpless  boys  were  sentenced  to 
long-term  Imprisonment,  in  the  name  of  discipline, 
was  so  artistically  woven  into  a  thrilling  plot  that 


94  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

It  made  Interesting  reading  even  to  the  most  avid 
fiction  devotees.  Yet  the  story  had  gone  the  rounds 
of  nearly  all  the  paying  magazines  without  finding 
a  market.  A  few  friendly  editors  wrote  the  author 
personal  letters,  one  editor  going  so  far  as  to  ex- 
press his  appreciation  of  the  work,  but  admitting 
that  the  story  was  deemed  "unavailable  because  It 
does  not  meet  with  the  policy  of  this  publication." 
I  supplied  the  discouraged  author  with  a  list  of  un- 
conventional publications — for  fortunately  we  do 
have  a  fighting  number  of  them  with  us — that  might 
welcome  his  story  but  could  afford  to  pay  either 
very  little  or  not  at  all.  He  refused  to  waste  his 
work  on  the  "freaks,"  and  wanted  to  know  If  he 
could  not  revise  the  story  to  make  It  salable  to  a 
standard  magazine.  I  told  him  that  elimination  of 
all  incidents  reflecting  unfavorably  upon  the  admin- 
istration of  law  In  our  army  would  undoubtedly 
help.  He  protested  that  the  Incidents  had  been 
taken  from  life  and  held  out  for  a  while,  but  finally 
he  succumbed  to  his  Intense  desire  to  "get  In." 
The  story  was  revised  and  made  perfectly  harmless 
— "sweet"  and  happy;  It  sold  on  Its  first  trip.  The 
officer  has  never  again  attempted  to  use  life  as  a 
basis  for  fiction — indiscriminately.  It  was  his  first 
altercation  with  policies — and  probably  his  last. 
It  requires  greater  powers  than  he  was  blessed  with 
to  put  up  a  more  valiant  resistance. 

It  is  a  sad  comment  on  education  that  under  exist- 


VERBOTEN  95 

ing  circumstances,  instructors  of  writers  are  obliged 
to  help  undermine  this  natural  resistance  a  few  re- 
bellious spirits  occasionally  display.  One  whose 
entire  stock  in  trade  is  a  knowledge  of  markets  and 
policies  and  an  ability  to  expound  existing  standards 
is  not  in  a  very  advantageous  position  to  encourage 
disregard  of  immutable  taboos.  We  must  say,  on 
reading  a  story  which  is  off-standard,  that  it  won't 
sell,  and  why.  We  must  formulate  and  enforce 
the  rules  that  make  for  "success"  in  fiction  writing. 
We  must  be  vestals  of  the  sacred  fires.  I  am  aware 
that  "vestals"  is  not  exactly  the  right  word  one 
should  use  in  this  connection;  perhaps  another  word 
connoting  less  virtue  would  be  more  apt.  But, 
after  all,  most  of  us  are  honest,  and  zealously  be- 
lieve that  the  fires  are  sacred  and  must  not  be  al- 
lowed to  go  out  or  be  polluted.  Vision?  Well, 
— aren't  the  blind  happy? 

5.  Americanism 

As  applied  to  our  literature  the  term  American 
has  come  to  mean  everything  and  anything.  It 
compliments  the  mediocre  twaddle  of  mediocre 
minds.  To  earn  the  compliment  a  story  must  be 
neither  sad  nor  "fresh"  nor  irreverent  nor  "red." 
It  must  not  be  burdened  with  too  much  thought  or 
sincere  emotion.  It  must  have  no  glimmer  of  an 
original  idea.  It  must  "kiss  the  hand  that  feeds 
it," — which  means  in  this  case  that  it  must  breathe 


96  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

a  sweet  humility  to  all  our  institutions,  from  the 
First  Law  of  the  land  to  the  American  Legion  and 
Babe  Ruth.  It  must  be  "glad  to  be  alive  and  carry 
on"— everything  that  is  old  and  respectable  and 
decrepit  and  green  with  mold. 

Let  a  piece  of  literary  art  reflect  an  unhackneyed 
thought,  let  it  break  any  one  of  our  ancient  taboos, 
let  it  dare  to  belittle  any  one  of  our  glorified  gener- 
alities and  dogmas — and  it  is  promptly  howled 
down  as  un-American.  The  literature  of  every 
other  country  on  earth  affords  an  interpretative  and 
critical  view  of  the  psychology  of  the  national  mind 
it  reflects,  while  American  literature  is  least  reflec- 
tive of  the  American  national  mind,  except  in  one 
particular:  its  cringing  fear  of  the  truth.  Were  it 
not  for  this  fear  to  face  the  truth,  and  the  inability 
of  the  average  American  to  stand  criticism,  the 
great  bulk  of  our  "literature"  would  find  no  buyers 
and  its  content  would  undergo  a  radical  change. 
It  is  this  national  trait  that  has  given  rise  to  the  sub- 
lime injunction,  "Don't  knock!"  We  may  have 
heard  of  Matthew  Arnold,  but  surely  never  of  his 
heretic  doctrine  that  literature  is  a  criticism  of  life. 
To  us  literature  is  largely  a  matter  of  so  many 
words  at  so  much  per  word,  or  so  many  hugs  and 
kisses  and  careers  attained  per  magazine  page. 

Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  with  us  we  have  the 
interminable  problem:  What  shall  we  write  about? 
With  one  of  the  largest  countries  in  the  world  in 


VERBOTEN  97 

which  to  live;  with  over  one  hundred  miUions  of 
people  living  and  working  and  battling  and  dream- 
ing all  about  us;  with  a  multitude  of  perplexing 
problems,  international,  national,  municipal,  class, 
clan,  and  individual,  clamoring  for  solution ;  with  a 
rich,    ever-shifting   panorama   of    a   young,    virile, 
national  existence  before  us;  with  a  million  comedies 
and  a  million  tragedies  avidly  looking  at  our  type- 
writer keys — with  all  this  to  be  had  for  the  taking, 
isn't  it  pathetically  absurd  that  we  must  voyage  the 
seven  seas  and  scour  all  the  corners  of  the  earth  in 
search    of    material?     Open    any    magazine     any 
month  and  note  the  proportion  of  stories  located 
in  far,  out-of-the-way  places.     Even  our  best  writers 
are  following  this  romantic  bent.     Twenty-five  per 
cent,  of  the  stories  contained  in  O'Brien's  "Year- 
book" for  1919  had  a  foreign  setting;  his  'Tear- 
book"  for  1920  contained  over  thirty  per  cent,  of 
stories    with    foreign    settings — mostly    exotic    and 
bizarre.     No  serious  objections  could  be  taken  to 
transcribing  the  life  of  foreign  places,  if  we  had 
first  become  aware  of  our  own.     But  we  have  not. 
Wc  hunt  for  foreign  material  simply  because  we  are 
afraid  to  sift  our  own.     We  are  only  now  beginning 
to    realize    that    our   young    continent — this    huge, 
crude  meltingpot — is  filled  with  brass  and  copper 
and  gold,   and  that  these  metals  are  melting  and 
fusing  into  some  homogeneous  substance,  which  we 
vaguely  term  America.     We  want  this  burst  of  con- 


98  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

sclousness  to  grow  and  sweep  us  along  to  great 
revelations,  but  a  false  pride  and  obsolete  traditions 
and  hypocritical  dogmas  are  blocking  the  way. 
Parrot-like  we  shout  from  pulpit  and  rostrum  and 
cathedra  the  old  banality:  "Boost!  All  the  world 
loves  a  booster!"  And  because  we  like  to  be  loved 
we  dare  not  touch  upon  the  wounds  of  life — the  hun- 
ger, the  passions,  the  buffets,  the  defeats  that  purge 
its  sordldness,  gild  Its  drabness,  and  actuate  us  to 
nobler  aspirations. 

We  pride  ourselves  that  we  have  developed  the 
short  story  to  perfection.  It  has  become  our 
national  form  of  literary  expression.  It  has 
reached  an  unparalleled  vogue.  But,  in  truth.  If  we 
are  entitled  to  pride,  it  Is  on  account  of  our  remark- 
able achievement  of  an  ability  to  tell  an  entertain- 
ing tale  without  telling  anything  worth  while. 
Paradoxically,  we  squeeze  amusement  out  of 
nothing.  We  have  attained  an  excellence  of  work- 
manship without  the  least  depth  of  substance.  But 
I  am  anticipating.  This  phase  of  the  subject  is  so 
important  that  It  deserves  a  chapter  for  itself,  which 
it  will  receive  later  on.  The  real  perfection  of  our 
short  story  is  yet  to  come.  The  signs  are  that  It  Is 
having  Its  birth  pangs  at  this  time.  Writers  of 
rich  promise  have  come  to  the  fore  recently — and 
here  and  there  a  magazine,  either  new  or  an  old 
one  with  a  new  policy,  to  receive  their  product. 
Our  perfected   short   story  will   be   bold,    fearless, 


VERBOTEN  99 

vital;  beating  with  the  vigorous  pulse  of  a  giant 
nation  stretching  its  limbs.  It  will  be  truly  Ameri- 
can— optimistic,  with  the  rugged  optimism  of  a 
Walt  Whitman;  brave,  with  the  courage  of  an  Im- 
petuous youth ;  rich,  with  the  colors  of  a  fertile  soil 
and  a  blending  humanity.  Perhaps  our  short  story 
Is  to  fulfill  the  hopes  H.  G.  Wells  once  had  for  the 
novel : 

"The  novel,"  he  wrote  In  An  Englishman  Looks 
at  the  JVorldy  "Is  to  be  the  social  mediator,  the 
vehicle  of  understanding  .  .  .  the  criticism  of 
laws  and  institutions  and  of  social  dogmas  and 
ideas  .  .  .  We  are  going  to  write 
about  the  whole  of  human  life.  We  are  going  to 
deal  with  political  questions  and  religious  questions 
and  social  questions  .  .  .  until  a  thousand  pre- 
tenses and  ten  thousand  Impostures  shrivel  In  the 
cold  clear  air  of  our  elucidations.  .  .  .  Before 
we  have  done  we  will  have  all  life  within  the  scope 
of  the  novel." 

A  lofty  assignment,  this,  for  a  form  of  literature 
that  Is  rooted,  as  our  short  story  always  has  been, 
in  the  precept  that  to  be  Interesting  It  must  eschew 
reality.  But  we  can  carry  it  out — and  will.  Our 
pioneers  are  already  on  the  trail — weak  as  yet,  not 
a  full-grown  Chekhov  among  them — but  gaining  in 
hardihood,  and  singing.  The  hordes  behind  them 
are  waiting  in  safety;  let  the  trail  become  a  bit 
smoother,    the   hardships   lessened,    and    they   will 


100  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

follow.  In  the  meantime  who  that  is  filled  with  that 
eternally  human  envious  admiration  for  pluck  can 
keep  back  his  "Good  cheer!"  and  "Godspeed!"? 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Artificial  Ending 

One  of  the  surest  tags  of  the  American  short 
story  has  been  its  happy  ending.  No  matter  what 
vicissitudes  the  hero  or  heroine  may  have  undergone, 
what  problems  and  tragedies  may  have  overtaken 
them,  what  unmendable  exploits  of  circumstance  or 
fate  they  may  have  been  subjected  to,  in  the  end 
all  must  be  well  with  them.  The  happy  ending  is  a 
direct  result  of  our  uplift  optimism,  of  our  Polly- 
anna  philosophy  of  life,  of  our  fear  of  reality.  We 
have  always  justified  it  on  the  ground  of  our  national 
psychology,  which,  we  claim,  is  buoyant  and  aggres- 
sive and  won't  accept  defeat.  We  have  insisted 
that  the  American  always  "gets  what  he  wants 
w^hen  he  wants  it."  And  even  the  cynics  among  us 
did  not  dispute  our  last  claim;  they  pointed  to  the 
happy  ending. 

It  is  true  that  of  late,  since  it  has  become  the 
fashion  to  question  everything,  the  happy  ending 
has  come  in  for  its  share  of  blasphemous  discussion. 
Here  and  there  views  have  been  expressed  that  a 
happy  ending  is  not  absolutely  necessary  to  make  a 
story  readable;  some  of  these  views  are  so  decid- 

101 


102  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

edly  antagonistic  as  to  maintain  that  a  happy  ending 
is  invariably  inartistic,  which  simply  proves,  again, 
that  rebound  is  directed  with  equal  force  but  in 
opposite  direction  as  the  original  bound.  Even 
aspiring  story  writers  come  in  occasionally  inocu- 
lated with  doubt  of  the  very  propriety  of  the  happy 
ending.  To  such,  we  the  votaries  of  the  perfect 
short  story,  having  exhausted  all  our  erudite  argu- 
ments in  a  vain  attempt  at  reconversion,  finally 
apply  the  one  unfailing  argument — the  threat  of 
the  editorial  rejection  slip.  The  happy  ending,  we 
admit,  may  not  always  be  artistic,  and  it  may  not 
always  bring  an  acceptance,  but  the  unhappy  ending 
almost  invariably  brings  a  rejection. 

The  fallacy  of  the  happy  ending  clearly  illustrates 
the  lack  of  any  sound  system  of  thought  or  reason- 
ing underlying  the  exposition  and  production  of 
American  fiction.  We  have  the  support  of  vener- 
able theories  and  formulas  and  high-sounding 
abstractions,  but  not  of  facts  and  logic.  It  is  as  if 
we  dared  not  examine  the  result  of  the  application 
of  our  theories  and  the  filling  of  our  formulas. 
Glibly  we  state  the  psychology  of  the  average  Ameri- 
can reader,  which  we  profess  to  know  so  well,  but 
do  not  care  to  assure  ourselves  whether  our  deduc- 
tions, and  even  our  major  premises  are  correct.  For 
if  it  were  true  that  the  average  reader  always 
demands  a  happy  ending,  we  would  have  no  explana- 
tion of  the  popularity  of  most  of  the  works  of  Poe, 


THE  ARTIFICIAL  ENDING  103 

Bret  Harte,  Jack  London,  Kipling,  Conrad,  Mau- 
passant, and  even  the  gray  Russians.  Doubtless 
there  are  individual  characteristics  in  the  writings 
of  these  gentlemen  that  have  appealed  to  our  happily- 
disposed  readers,  but  how  much  of  the  appeal  has 
been  due  to  a  vogue  created  by  official  O.  K.'ers? 
The  inchoate  reversion  to  an  insistence  on  the 
unhappy  ending,  which  is  becoming  apparent  among 
some  layers  of  our  reading  public,  tends  to  con- 
firm this  suggestion.  For  it  is  not  probable  that 
the  same  people  who  have  never  been  able  to  enjoy 
a  story  unless  it  ended  happily  should  suddenly 
have  been  seized  with  a  passionate  amour  for  the 
"morbid"  ending;  and,  from  any  rational  point  of 
view,  it  is  just  as  fallacious  to  accept  the  unhappy 
ending  as  an  invariable  rule  as  it  is  to  accept  the 
happy  ending.  One  may  be  as  artificial  as  the  other. 
Manifestly  there  are  kinks  in  the  average  reader's 
psychology  of  which  we  have  not  been  aware,  or 
if  we  have,  have  paid  little  attention  to.  This  psy- 
chology which  we  have  taken  for  granted  and 
builded  upon  is  not  after  all  so  solid  as  we  have 
supposed  it  to  be.  It  can  be  and  is  being  molded. 
It  appears  that  the  present-day  average  reader  fears 
nothing  so  much  as  the  imputation  of  being  average. 
Here  and  there  a  brave  soul  may  vociferously  boast 
of  being  a  "low-brow,"  thus  betraying  a  troubled 
consciousness  of  mediocrity,  but  on  the  whole  the 
tendency  is  to  deplore  the  tastes  of  the  average, 


104  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

thereby  Imputing  to  one's  self,  by  implication  of 
contrast,  the  possession  of  tastes  above  those  of 
the  average.  Hence  the  sudden  ability  to  enjoy  an 
unhappy  ending.  Hence  also  the  distrust  of  the 
average  editor  of  this  sudden  growth  In  taste.  He 
knows  Its  make-believe  nature :  the  average  reader 
may  learn  to  pretend  a  dislike  for  the  good  old 
happy  ending,  but  in  truth  he  enjoys  It  as  much  as 
he  ever  did.  Hence  the  continued  demand  for 
stories  with  happy  endings. 

This  may  not  be  such  a  cheering  view  of  the 
average  reader's  psychology,  but  neither  Is  It 
entirely  cheerless.  By  exploiting  Its  hypocritical 
vein  of  pretended  admiration  for  good  literature, 
we  may  hope  ultimately  to  develop  a  genuine 
admiration.  People  of  habitual  coarse  tastes,  for 
beverages,  delicacies,  clothes  or  arts,  usually  begin 
the  refining  process  by  affecting  the  tastes  of  those 
whom  they  think  their  betters.  The  process  Itself 
is  rather  long  and  tedious  and  often  disheartening. 
But  the  aping  instinct  helps  measurably.  We  cannot 
hope  to  have  a  discriminating  reading  public  In  a 
day.  Too  long  have  we  Impressed  upon  our  public 
the  blessings  of  a  happy  disposition  and  the  artistry 
of  reflecting  it  In  our  literature.  Too  long  have  we 
brazened  about  our  pride  In  Pollyanna,  Walling- 
ford,  Torchy,  and  a  hundred  other  Active  chasers  of 
the  blues,  who  won't  take  defeat  but  go  on  singing 
on  their  way.     The  happy  story,  with  its  breezy 


THE  ARTIFICIAL  ENDING  105 

style,  its  giggling  climax,  and  its  smacking  denoue- 
ment has  become  a  fixed  type  from  which  our 
readers'  affection  cannot  be  so  quickly  alienated. 

D.  W.  Griffith,  one  of  the  ablest  producers  of 
moving  pictures,  is  reported  to  have  made  the  state- 
ment that  the  average  spectator  of  cinema  drama 
has  the  intelligence  of  a  nine-year-old  child/  That 
Mr.  Griffith  is  justified  in  his  statement  may  be 
assumed  from  the  huge  success  he  has  had  in  pur- 
veying cinema  entertainment.  He  has  made  mil- 
lions where  others  have  made  scanty  half-millons. 
Verily,  he  knows  his  public  and  is  in  a  position  to 
estimate  its  mental  powers  with  some  measure  of 
accuracy.  His  contempt  of  its  intelligence  does  him 
credit.    .   .   . 

One  of  his  greatest  successes  has  been  his  pro- 
duction of  ''Way  Down  East,"  a  spectacular  melo- 
drama of  the  old  angel-girl-Satan-man  variety, 
with  a  resulting  illegitimate  baby  which  happily 
sees  fit  to  die,  leaving  the  little  mother  to  find  work 
with  a  good  Christian  family.  But  her  past  is 
against  her  and  she  is  finally  driven  out  into  a 
terrible  snow-storm  by  a  man  who  quotes  the  Bible 
by  the  yard,  and  the  women  in  the  audience  wet 
their  little  handkerchiefs,  and  the  men  hawk  and 
cough  and  blow  their  noses.  The  big  scene  of  the 
picture,  and  which  is  probably  responsible  for 
seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  picture's  phenomenal 

^Literary  Digest,  May  14,   1921. 


106  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

success,  shows  a  whole  river  of  ice  floating  down 
toward  a  furiously-dashing  waterfall.  The  poor 
little  heroine  is  on  one  of  the  huge  cakes  of  ice  fast 
Rearing  the  watery  precipice,  while  the  good  boy 
who  loves  her  honestly  is  jumping  like  an  acrobat 
after  her  in  the  teeth  of  a  raging  storm. 

Now,  all  the  moving-picture  patrons  in  the  coun- 
try, from  the  past  experience  of  having  witnessed 
one  thousand  pictures  and  read  ten  thousand  maga- 
zine stories,  ought  to  know  that  there  is  not  one 
chance  in  a  million  that  the  plucky  lover  will  not 
arrive  in  time  to  rescue  his  sweetheart — such  things 
have  not  happened  and  do  not  happen  (in  our 
stones,  of  course!),  yet  they  become  wide-eyed  and 
panting  with  excitement,  as  if  they  were  in  doubt 
about  the  outcome.  Griffith  uses  the  "cut-back" 
every  ten  or  twenty  feet,  showing  the  thundering 
falls,  the  crashing  ice  with  the  limp  figure  of  the 
girl  upon  it,  the  boy  precariously  maintaining  his 
balance,  then  back  again  to  the  falls;  thus  prolong- 
ing the  agony  until  he  thinks  the  public  has  got  its 
money's  worth;  then  the  boy  arrives,  clasps  the  girl 
in  his  arms,  his  erring  Christian  father  asks  her 
forgiveness  and  welcomes  her  as  a  prospective 
daughter-in-law,  and  the  public  file  out  in  the  lobby, 
exclaiming  ecstatically  to  one  another:  "What  a 
masterpiece!"  Verily,  this  Mr.  Griffith  knew 
whereof  he  spoke. 

Our  public  is  still  thrilled  with  a  climax  of  whose 


THE  ARTIFICIAL  ENDING  107 

outcome  there  ought  to  be  not  the  slightest  doubt. 
Which  merely  proves  that  if  our  fiction  still  has  a 
measure  of  suspense  it  is  not  due  to  our  clever  tech- 
nique but  to  the  almost  fabulous  stupidity  of  the 
large  mass  of  readers.    We  have  evolved  our  tricks 
of  technique  for  the  prime  purpose  of  maintaining 
a  keen  suspense,  of  keeping  the  outcome  of  the  con- 
flict which  every  story  must  have  in  the  balance,  of 
heightening  the  reader's  curiosity  to  follow  the  des- 
tiny of  the  hero   or  heroine  in  whose  behalf  his 
sympathies  have  been  enlisted  to  a  satisfactory  end. 
But  if  after,  let  us  say,  twenty  years  of  reading 
fiction,  there  should  suddenly  dawn  upon  our  aver- 
age reader's  mind  the  idea  that  as  the  hero  or  hero- 
ine of  a  story  is  always  immortal  and  unconquer- 
able in  the  end,  no  matter  how  circumstances  may 
appear  to  be  against  him  or  her  for  the  moment, 
would  not  our  skillfully  woven   suspense   suffer   a 
severe  jolt?  Of  what  use  would  it  be  to  fear  for  the 
safety  of  the  trapped  little  girl  when  a  dogged  con- 
fidence, gained  by  profitable  experience  in  reading, 
would  suggest  that  she  is  due  at  the  altar  on  page 
five  and  would  inevitably  keep  her  appointment?  Of 
what  use  would  be  taking  seriously  the  pugilistic 
encounters     of     the     Man-Who-Can't-Be-Knocked- 
Out?     Why  thrill  with  anxiety  over  an  overturned 
automobile  when  it  is  certain  that  the  hero  pinned 
underneath    it   will    have    sustained    nothing   more 
serious  than  a  few  scratches  that  must  heal  before 


108  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

the  final  sentence  is  completed?  What  would 
become  of  all  our  tricks  and  ingenuity  and  inventive- 
ness? Would  not  this  one  convention  of  the  invari- 
ably happy  ending  then  defeat  all  our  efforts  at 
creating  suspense?  And  if  that  happened  would  it 
not  be  the  direst  calamity  to  all  we  have  worked  for, 
to  the  entire  mechanism  of  our  "perfect"  story? 

The  preceding  paragraph  is  prophetic  of  what 
ultimately  must  happen.  As  yet  that  day  may  be 
far  off  in  the  hazy  distance,  but  when  it  comes  the 
philosophy  of  our  short  story  must  undergo  a  com- 
plete metamorphosis.  Its  own  glaring  contradic- 
tions, if  not  external  influences,  must  ultimately  bring 
that  about.  To  preach  Suspense  as  the  highest  law, 
then  kill  it  at  its  very  inception  by  another  law  of 
the  happy  ending  is  an  absurdity  that  cannot  long 
remain  unapparent  even  to  a  nine-year-old  intel- 
ligence. 

Meantime  the  reaction  noted  in  some  quarters 
toward  the  invariably  unhappy  ending  is  just  as 
sinister  an  influence  toward  the  rise  of  another 
absurdity.  Whether  this  reaction  be  sincere — as  in 
the  case  of  those  who  have  been  fed  with  glucose 
fiction  ad  nauseam — or  merely  fashionable — as  in 
the  case  of  most  of  the  Left  Wing  of  our  present- 
day  average  reading  public — if  crystallized  and  per- 
petuated as  a  dogma  it  is  bound  to  constitute  a 
serious  hindrance  in  the  evolution  of  the  short  story. 
Once  and  for  all  we  must  come  to  an  acceptance  of 


THE  ARTIFICIAL  ENDING  109 

the  truth  that  there  can  be  but  one  kind  of  an  ending 
to  a  story — whether  happy  or  unhappy — and  that 
is  the  logical  one,  an  ending  which  Is  a  direct  inevi- 
able  outgrowth  of  the  story  Itself.  No  law  can  be 
made  that  would  apply  to  all  stories;  each  story 
generates  Its  own  laws.  The  question  of  repugnance 
or  preferences  of  the  reader  does  not  enter  here  at 
all.  The  question  of  cause  and  effect,  of  Intelligent 
probability  gaged  by  a  keen  observation  of  the  laws 
or  lack-of-laws  of  reality — this  question  alone  must 
become  paramount  and  decisive. 

It  is  true  that  the  noblest  literary  works,  from  the 
dramas  of  ^schylus  to  the  present  day,  have  all 
been  tinged  with  sadness — Maupassant's  definition 
of  literature  as  being  a  mirror  of  life,  proving  a  true 
one.  Also  that  other  one — is  it  by  Goethe? — that 
literature  Is  the  conscience  of  the  human  race.  In 
the  world  of  men,  with  the  dark  mystery  of  death 
as  an  ever-present  certainty,  thus  sowing  a  sense  of 
the  futility  of  all  human  aspirations  and  achieve- 
ment in  the  hearts  of  even  the  most  aggressive  of 
us;  with  a  lurking  consciousness  of  Insurmountable 
limitations  besetting  our  fondest  dreams;  with  a  still 
more  pronounced  consciousness  that  the  maturing 
of  dreams  frequently  marks  their  decay,  and  almost 
always  marks  the  thawing  of  their  dewy  glitter — in 
such  a  world,  literature,  welling  up  from  the  depths 
of  inner  consciousness,  cannot  help  being  tinged  with 
sadness.     In  fact,  the  vast  bulk  of  the  world's  lit- 


110  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

erary  masterpieces  consists  of  tragedies.  The  sooner 
this  fundamental  fact  is  woven  into  the  fiber  of 
American  fiction  the  sooner  will  American  fiction 
become  the  mirror  of  American  life  and  the  con- 
science of  the  American  people. 

But  this  solemn  historic  consideration  does  not 
justify  the  adoption  of  a  rigid  rule  that  an  unhappy 
ending  of  a  story  is  artistic  and  that  a  happy  one  is 
always  inartistic.  Least  of  all  could  it  be  justified 
in  its  application  to  the  short  story,  which  frequently 
deals  with  but  a  single  incident  in  the  life  of  a  char- 
acter rather  than  with  a  complete  history.  There 
are  infinitely  more  probabilities  of  ultimate  defeat 
in  a  complete  history  than  in  a  single  experience. 
Death  is  not  always  the  price  of  an  adventure,  nor 
disillusionment  that  of  an  undertaking.  Conrad's 
"Youth,"  melancholy  as  it  is  with  the  breath  of 
finiteness  of  all  our  glorious  epochs,  has  no  tragic 
ending.  The  young  commander  has  dared  through 
stress  and  storm  and  adversity,  has  pitted  the 
strength  of  his  youth  against  that  of  the  sea  and  has 
come  out  victorious,  glowing  with  the  symbolic  mes- 
sage:  "Do  or  Die!"  And  though,  when  he  re- 
counts the  narrative  of  that  first  command  of  his, 
youth  is  far  behind  him,  he  is  filled  with  lyric  mem- 
ories of  it  far  sweeter  than  his  distant  exploit  itself. 
Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman's  "Revolt  of  Mother" 
ends  happily  and  yet  logically  and  artistically.  Per- 
haps in  her  next  encounter  with  her  hard-hearted 


THE  ARTIFICIAL  ENDING  111 

and  hard-headed  husband  Mother  won't  be  as  suc- 
cessful, but  in  this  one  which  Mrs.  Freeman  had 
chosen  to  relate,  she  carries  the  day.  Maupassant's 
"Moonlight"  ends  well.  The  old  Abbe  realizes 
that  "God  perhaps  has  made  such  nights  as  this  to 
clothe  with  his  ideals  the  loves  of  men,"  and 
the  young  couple  can  henceforth  love  unmolested. 
James  Branch  Cabell's  "Wedding  Jest"  ends  hap- 
pily, although  satirically — the  point  of  the  story — 
not  a  happy  one  by  any  means — being  contained  par- 
ticularly in  the  ending.  An  enumeration  of  all  the 
great  short  stories  that  have  happy  endings  would 
make  a  paragraph  of  considerable  length. 

From  any  technical  point  of  view  the  unhappy 
ending,  when  canonized  into  a  convention,  will 
defeat  any  skill  and  ingenuity  or  even  natural  artis- 
try in  the  maintenance  of  suspense.  After  a  while 
readers  will  learn  that  every  story  must  end  unhap- 
pily and  will  be  on  their  guard.  Already  the  few 
periodicals  that  have  made  a  convention  of  the  un- 
conventional ending  are  suffering  a  depressing  mo- 
notony. There  really  is  no  reason  for  following  the 
love  illusions  of  the  unsophisticated  heroine  when  it 
is  certain  that  disillusionment  awaits  her  in  the  end. 
Nor  is  there  reason  for  feeling  elated  over  the  suc- 
cess of  our  hero  when  we  know  that  it  is  temporary, 
that  it  is  only  a  matter  of  paragraphs  or  pages 
before  this  success  will  be  turned  into  defeat. 

If  then  we  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  neither 


112  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

the  happy  ending  nor  the  tragic  ending  is  in  itself 
an  indication  of  artistry,  but  must  be  considered  in 
its  relation  to  the  story  it  ends,  we  arrive  at  a 
view  which  is  at  once  rational  and  simple — so 
simple,  in  fact,  that  it  seems  banal  to  emphasize  it. 
In  the  matter  of  endings  we  have  been  thinking  in 
terms  of  producing  the  greatest  effect,  totally  ignor- 
ing their  inevitability  as  culminating  points  of  given 
sets  of  plot  influences.  We  know  that  the  end  of 
a  story  marks  an  emphatic  place  which  leaves  the 
greatest  impression  upon  the  reader's  mind;  it  is, 
rhetorically,  a  strategic  point,  and  therefore  we  con- 
centrate all  our  surprises,  our  jugglery,  our  uplift 
message  and  our  disposition  upon  this  point.  We 
want  the  reader  to  go  away  smiling,  or  pleasantly 
startled,  or,  if  we  write  for  the  conventionally  un- 
conventional publication,  unpleasantly  satisfied. 
The  fact  that  a  writer  after  having  set  his  char- 
acters in  motion  and  allowing  them  to  act  and  react 
upon  the  various  forces  of  the  plot,  to  mold  and  be 
molded,  has  no  power  over  the  ending  other  than 
that  of  guiding  the  threads  of  his  story — characters, 
motives  and  circumstances — to  the  end  they  are 
logically  bound  for,  is  as  yet  obscure  among  us.  We 
are  associating  the  ending  with  Its  Impressions  upon 
the  reader,  with  its  gallery  value — rather  than  with 
the  soul  of  the  story.  As  Mr.  Carl  Van  Doren, 
former  literary  editor  of  The  Nation  and  now  of 
The  Century  has  expressed  it:     "According  to  all 


THE  ARTIFICIAL  ENDING  113 

the  codes  of  the  more  serious  kinds  of  fiction,  the 
unwillingness — or  the  Inability — to  conduct  a  plot  to 
its  legitimate  ending  Implies  some  weakness  in  the 
artistic  character."^ 

This  weakness  that  Mr.  Van  Doren  refers  to  In 
reality  arises  from  our  very  conception  of  the  func- 
tion of  fiction  and  the  motives  that  govern  its 
birth.  In  a  majority  of  cases  the  prime  motive  for 
writing  a  story  is  to  obtain  a  check  from  a  publisher; 
the  dazzling  figures  cited  in  our  newspapers  and 
writers'  magazines  as  the  incomes  of  some  fictlonlsts 
exert  an  irresistible  appeal.  The  constant  hammer- 
ing upon  literature  as  a  commodity  which  can  be 
and  is  being  produced  as  any  other  commodity  at 
such  and  such  a  price,  the  size  being  determined 
upon  its  ability  to  perform  the  clownish  function  of 
supplying  a  laugh  or  a  thrill  to  the  largest  number 
of  T.  B.  M.'s  or  T.  B.  W.'s,  is  another  Influence 
responsible  for  this  weakness.  That  fiction  Is  a 
medium  for  the  expression  of  a  writer's  reactions 
to  his  business  of  living  Is  a  view  that  mighty  few 
of  our  writers,  editors,  and  literary  savants  seem 
to  hold.  So  that  the  fallacy  of  the  happy  ending, 
and  of  the  unhappy  ending  as  well.  Is  Inevitably 
bound  up  with  the  larger  fallacy  of  mistaking  the 
manufacture  of  stories  for  the  function  of  literature. 

2  "Booth  Tarkington,"  The  Nation,  February  9,  1921. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Form  and  Substance 

Jack  London  In  his  confessions  of  his  struggle  for 
recognition  as  a  writer  gives  this  formula  for  success 
in  literature :  Health,  Work,  and  a  Philosophy  of 
Life.  Health  Is  necessary,  of  course,  In  order  to 
do  any  hard  work,  and  in  a  world  against  which  old 
Malthus  railed,  nothing  can  be  attained  without 
hard  work.  But  It  is  the  value  of  the  third  ingredi- 
ent which  is  most  often  overlooked  and  the  absence 
of  which  is  responsible  for  the  failure  of  most  of 
our  literary  output  to  rise  above  the  level  of  medi- 
ocrity. We  have  noted,  in  another  place,  that  Jack 
London  himself,  in  the  bulk  of  his  production,  failed 
to  strike  more  than  an  occasional  deep  and  sincere 
chord,  but  It  was  not  because  his  ear  was  faulty; 
it  was  simply  because  his  audience  rejected  precisely 
the  deep  chord. 

Let  it  be  understood  that  by  a  philosophy  of  life 
Jack  London  did  not  refer  to  any  definite  view  on 
economic  reform  or  social  regeneration.  Narrow, 
limited,  prejudiced  views  have  but  little  place  in 
literature;  if  presented  by  the  hand  of  an  artist, 
they  may  appeal  for  a  short  time,  but  never  for  very 

114 


FORM  AND  SUBSTANCE  115 

long.  Great  writers  there  have  been  who  were  not 
as  actively  engaged  in  the  squabbles  of  the  world  as 
Jack  London  was  and  who  did  not  take  definite 
sides  in  the  skirmishes  of  any  generation  but  they 
have  all  had  a  philosophy  of  life  none  the  less,  in 
that  they  have  all  had  a  broad,  philosophic  compre- 
hension of  the  basic  laws  which  govern  human  life 
and  actions;  of  causes  and  effects  conducive  to 
human  suffering  and  happiness;  and  of  the  reactions 
of  these  basic  laws  upon  the  author  himself  so  that 
he  is  able  to  present  them  from  a  definite  angle — 
his  angle. 

It  is  the  possession  of  this  individual  angle  upon 
the  everlasting  panorama  of  life  and  death  which 
distinguishes  the  vital  master  from  the  flabby 
mechanic.  We  might  call  it  philosophy  of  life, 
independence  of  mind,  originality,  idealism,  or  what 
not.  In  all  cases  it  makes  for  substance — the  thing 
by  which  a  work  of  art  lives. 

No  slight  is  intended  on  the  value  of  form  In 
literature.  If  the  appropriate  masterful  form 
clothes  this  vital  substance,  so  much  the  better,  of 
course,  but  it  is  the  substance  that  is  the  protoplasm. 
Form  follows  fads  and  fashions,  and  is  decidedly 
mortal;  substance  alone  Illustrates  the  immutable 
law  of  the  indestructibility  of  matter.  With  all 
their  beautiful  rhetoric  and  genial  humor,  the  Spec- 
tator and  Tatler  papers  of  Addison  and  Steele  are 
mildly  entertaining  dead  matter  today,  but  the  trag- 


116  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

edies  and  comedies  of  the  Bard  of  Avon  are  as 
appealing  today  as  three  centuries  ago,  even  though 
handicapped  by  a  form  no  longer  in  vogue.  Dos- 
toyevsky's  novels,  to  take  a  more  modern  example, 
were  written  in  a  style  as  clumsy  and  uncouth  as 
ever  novels  could  be  written  in,  but  their  burning 
pages  sear  the  souls  of  men  who  read  them.  The 
gift  of  substance  is  in  them — a  fiery  miracle,  an 
Apocalypse. 

The  one  supremely  outstanding  feature  in  our 
American  fiction  is  its  lack  of  substance.  Some  of 
us  have  the  O.  Henry  style  and  some  of  us  have  the 
Henry  James  style  and  still  others  have  the  Wash- 
ington Irving  or  the  Poe  style;  some  of  us  can  plot 
and  others  can  end  a  story  with  a  flourish;  some 
possess  a  dazzling  vocabulary  and  others  are  genii 
of  rhetoric — but  how  many  have  something  sus- 
taining to  impart  to  a  world  drowning  in  platitudes? 
How  much  of  worth  has  our  fiction  added  to  the 
world's  sum  of  comprehension  of  beauty,  of  truth? 
We  have  developed  schools  and  systems  of  teaching 
and  learning  how  to  say  things;  we  have  bent  every 
effort  toward  the  evolving  of  a  science  of  expression 
only  to  find  that  we  have  been  too  busy  expressing 
to  acquire  what  to  express.  American  ethics  has 
always  been  a  point  of  national  pride,  but  we  have 
never  applied  it  to  the  art  of  talking  brilliantly  when 
one  has  nothing  to  say.  As  George  Macdonald 
once  put  it:     ".     .     .     If  a  man  has  nothing  to 


FORM  AND  SUBSTANCE  117 

communicate,  there  Is  no  reason  why  he  should  have 
a  good  style,  any  more  than  why  he  should  have  a 
good  purse  without  any  money,  or  a  good  scabbard 
without  any  sword." 

Again,  the  acquisition  of  nobility  of  form  Is  not 
to  be  discouraged,  but  the  possession  of  something 
to  tell  the  world  is  the  sublimest  of  gifts,  and  gains 
the  world's  everlasting  gratitude;  and  the  greatest 
seeming  anomaly  in  the  conditions  under  which 
American  literature  is  produced  is  that  this  gift  is 
not  only  rated  at  a  discount  but  fought,  vilified, 
grappled  with.  The  only  way  the  gift  can  be 
acquired,  if  it  can,  is  through  an  insatiable  interest 
in  the  stuff  and  forms  of  life;  but  such  interest  leads 
to  inquiry  and  inquiry  leads  to  heresy;  venerable 
taboos  are  broken.  The  anomaly  becomes  a  normal 
result  of  an  inferior  conception  of  the  rights  and 
functions  of  literature.  Prejudices  are  placed  above 
art;  policies  above  truth;  words  above  meanings. 

Once,  at  a  suffrage  gathering,  a  young  writer  was 
introduced  by  a  friend  to  a  famous  writer  whose 
encouragement  the  beginner  desired.  At  the  end  of 
the  evening  the  friend  asked  the  famous  writer  for 
his  impressions  of  the  budding  genius.  "I  have  not 
read  any  of  his  work,"  the  famous  writer  answered, 
"but  I  am  afraid  he  has  not  the  makings  of  a  genius. 
The  way  he  snubbed  the  poor  girl  I  Introduced  him 
to  merely  because  she  is  a  salesgirl  indicates  that 
he  lacks  the  voracious  interest  in  the  human  element 


118  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

which  marks  the  true  artist.  How  is  he  ever  going 
to  talk  Man  when  he  doesn't  know  Man?" 

Voracious  interest — that's  the  path  that  leads*  to 
the  gift  of  substance,  to  the  ''philosophy  of  life," 
the  original  angle !  Caesar  saw  before  he  con- 
quered. And  he  had  to  come  a  long  way  before 
he  could  see.  But  he  wanted  to  see.  And  it  is 
wanting  to  see  that  is  the  whip  of  genius.  Dickens 
walked  the  streets  of  London  for  hours,  through 
rain  and  fog  and  slush  and  shine,  because  he  wanted 
to  see  it,  all  of  it,  every  nook  and  corner  of  it.  Bal- 
zac tramped  the  length  and  breadth  of  Paris, 
haunted  parks  and  shops  and  drawing-rooms,  be- 
cause the  human  comedy  appealed  to  him.  The 
Russian  Kuprin  dressed  himself  in  a  diver's  suit 
and  had  himself  lowered  many  fathoms  into  the 
Black  Sea  because  he  wanted  to  experience  the 
sensations  of  a  diver.  And  Jack  London 
circled  the  globe  because  he  wanted  to  see  what 
it  is  like. 

A  little  class-room  episode  comes  to  mind.  In 
the  poetry  class  Carl  Sandburg  came  up  for  dis- 
cussion. A  few  of  his  Chicago  poems  were  read 
when  a  fair  would-be  poet  spoke  up  in  protest.  "I 
have  lived  in  Chicago  all  my  life,"  she  said,  "and 
have  never  seen  the  things  Sandburg  sees  I"  But 
there  was  another  student  In  the  room,  a  very  unob- 
trusive little  girl  sitting  somewhere  in  the  back  of 
the  room,   and  she  suddenly  came  to  her  Instruc- 


FORM  AND  SUBSTANCE  119 

tor's  rescue.  "That's  why  you  are  not  Sandburg!" 
she  exclaimed. 

The  true  artist  is  the  perpetual  explorer.  He 
cannot  invent  the  substance  of  his  work,  but  he  can 
discover  it  in  the  life  of  nature  and  his  fellow-men. 
And  the  more  he  sees  the  more  he  learns  to  see,  for 
to  be  able  to  see  the  new  and  unexplored  in  the  old 
and  elemental  is  the  highest  art  in  itself.  A  hunch- 
back to  a  child  in  the  streets  is  an  object  to  throw 
stones  at,  to  a  Victor  Hugo  he  is  a  grand,  heroic  fig- 
ure, fierce  and  glorious  in  his  pathetic  grandeur.  A 
typhoon  to  a  Chinese  fisherman  represents  the.  wrath 
of  his  god  for  the  omission  of  a  prayer  or  a  sacrifice ; 
to  Joseph  Conrad  it  symbolizes  the  majestic  resent- 
ment of  the  Sea  itself  against  man's  desecration  of 
its  peace  and  beauty  and  mystery.  Only  the  Ameri- 
can artist  knows  no  symbols  and  is  warned  against 
attempting  to  know. 

Our  great  cry  has  always  been :  "Acquire  form  I" 
Grammar,  rhetoric,  metrics,  technique — these  have 
been  the  indispensable  tools  of  our  writers.  They 
still  are.  But  having  acquired  them  our  writers 
find  they  can  fashion  nothing  beautiful,  nothing 
lasting,  nothing  that  will  weather  the  storms  of  time. 
For  no  tools,  no  matter  how  sharp  or  perfect,  can 
accomplish  the  feat  of  fashioning  something  out  of 
vacuum.  The  American  story  always  has  laid 
claims  to  style — but  it  hasn't  lived.  Writers  have 
come  and  had  their  vogue  and  gone.     Even  years 


120  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

back  when  style  was  more  leisurely  and  rounded, 
when  the  badge  of  haste  was  not  upon  it,  Charles 
Dudley  Warner  remarked:  "We  may  be  sure  that 
any  piece  of  literature  which  attracts  only  by  some 
trick  of  style,  however  it  may  blaze  up  for  a  day  and 
startle  the  world  with  its  flash,  lacks  the  element  of 
endurance.  We  do  not  need  much  experience  to 
tell  us  the  difference  between  a  lamp  and  a  Roman 
candle." 

This  remark  can  be  elaborated  on,  explained, 
complemented.  The  truth  is  that  there  can  be  no 
style  without  substance.  These  elements  are  not 
separate  entities;  only  superficially  do  they  seem  to 
be.  How  much  sweetness  can  a  "sweet  nothing" 
contain?  How  much  beauty  can  a  work  of  "art" 
contain  which  has  emptiness  of  thought  and  ughness 
of  conception?  How  much  truth  can  be  embedded  in 
a  fundamental  falsehood?  Every  great  poet  has 
found  the  soul  of  his  poem  determining  its  form. 
Great  style  grows  from  within — it  is  an  off-shoot  of 
great  substance.  To  the  American  writer  this  rela- 
tionship has  never  been  apparent;  and  most  of  our 
critics,  professing  a  lofty  aestheticism  from  the 
shadows  of  their  academies,  have  never  paid  atten- 
tion to  it.  Our  literature  cannot  boast  the  posses- 
sion of  a  single  lucid  outline  of  this  vital  relationship 
between  form  and  substance  such  as  the  following 
from  Remy  de  Gourmont's  "Le  Probleme  du  Style." 
I  wonder  how  many  authors  of  textbooks  exhorting 


FORM  AND  SUBSTANCE  121 

American  would-be  authors  to  learn  the  cabalistic 
lore  of  expression  have  ever  read  this : 

"A  new  fact  or  a  new  idea  is  worth  more  than 
a  fine  phrase.  A  lovely  phrase  is  a  lovely  thing  and 
so  is  a  lovely  flower.  But  their  duration  is  almost 
the  same — a  day,  a  century.  Nothing  dies  more 
swiftly  than  a  style  which  does  not  rest  upon  the 
solidity  of  vigorous  thinking.  Such  a  style  shrivels 
like  a  stretched  skin;  it  falls  in  a  heap  as  ivy 
does  from  the  rotten  tree  that  once  gave  it 
support. 

"It  is  probably  an  error  to  attempt  to  distinguish 
between  form  and  substance.  .  .  .  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  amorphous  matter;  all  thought  has 
a  limit,  hence  a  form,  since  it  is  a  partial  representa- 
tion of  true  or  possible,  real  or  imaginary  life.  Sub- 
stance engenders  form  exactly  as  the  tortoise  and 
the  oyster  do  the  materials  of  their  respective 
shells.     .     .     . 

"Form  without  a  foundation,  style  without 
thoiight — what  a  poor  thing  it  is  I      .     .     . 

"If  nothing  lives  in  literature  except  by  its  style, 
that  is  because  works  well  thought  out  are  invari- 
ably well  written.  But  the  converse  is  not  true. 
Style  alone  is  nothing. 

"The  sign  of  the  man  in  any  intellectual  work  is 
the  thought.  The  thought  is  the  man.  And  style 
and  thought  are  one."^ 

^  From  Ludwig  Lewisohn's  translation   in   "A   Modern  Book  of 
Criticism."     Boni   &  Liveright. 


122  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

If  we  were  candid  enough  the  proper  answer  to 
make  to  this  brilliant  Frenchman  would  be:  "Who 
told  you  that  literature  Is  an  'intellectual  work'?" 
But  we  are  not  candid  enough.  Only  in  our  strictly 
professional  journals  do  we  dare  liken  literature  to 
cobbling  or  tin-smithing  or  hod-carrying;  in  the 
official  world,  in  our  lectures  and  book-reviews,  we 
consider  it  an  art  and  talk  of  Muses  and  Pegasus 
and  all  the  artistic  divinities  of  Mount  Olympus 
and  Chillicothe. 

A  simple  confession  will  not  be  amiss  here.  This 
discussion  has  been  largely  a  plea  for  the  man  and 
woman  who  would  find  in  literature,  and  in  the 
short  story  specifically,  the  relief  of  a  burdened 
soul.  The  influences  that  would  withhold  this  relief 
are  multitudinous  and  powerful.  The  struggle  is 
unequal  and  pathetic.  But  of  the  hundreds  of 
literary  aspirants  that  have  come  to  my  personal 
notice  only  an  isolated  individual  here  and  there  was 
blessed  with  any  kind  of  a  burden.  The  vast  multi- 
tude of  souls  were  cheerfully  lightweight  and  unen- 
cumbered. These  aspirants  came  to  study  technique 
so  that  they  might  learn  how  to  write  salable  stories, 
but  they  had  no  stories  to  tell.  Some  of  them  be- 
lieved they  could  become  great  story  writers  because 
when  at  school  they  had  Deceived  excellent  marks  in 
composition;  others  claimed  on  more  general 
grounds  a  gift  of  expression  and  they  wished  to  put 
it  to  practical  use.     That  it  was  necessary  to  have 


FORM  AND  SUBSTANCE  123 

lived  In  order  to  write  of  life  was  a  thought  that  had 
never  occurred  to  them.  They  were  blissfully  un- 
aware of  such  a  necessity.  They  needed  form,  noth- 
ing else,  and  applied  themselves  conscientiously  to- 
ward its  acquisition.  The  irony  of  the  whole  matter 
is  that  they  actually  estimated  their  deficiency  ac- 
curately: form  was  what  they  wanted,  and  nothing 
else.  After  a  while  they  began  to  sell.  In  all  cases 
the  unhappy  aspirants  who  were  plagued  with 
thoughts  and  emotions  have  found  it  harder  to  sell, 
no  matter  how  much  excellence  of  form  they  suc- 
ceeded in  acquiring.  In  the  field  of  the  American 
short  story,  the  "lightweights"  have  it,  so  far. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  even  a  lightweight  must 
have  something  to  clothe  with  his  all-potent  form — 
be  it  a  skeleton  ever  so  rattling.  But  that  has  been 
answered  In  Chapter  IV  on  the  Moving  Pictures. 
There  are  themes  a-plenty,  airy,  optimistic,  harmless 
themes  that  no  respectable  editor,  reader,  or  Board 
of  Censorship  can  object  to.  They  can  be  adapted 
and  readapted  an  Infinity  of  times,  provided  each 
time  a  new  twist  or  a  "different"  trick  Is  Introduced. 

All  our  themes  seem  to  have  divided  themselves 
into  two  grand  classes :  Stereotyped  themes  out  of 
which  stories  are  made,  and  Life  themes  out  of 
which  literature  is  made.  The  first  class  contains 
an  abundance  of  material  that  any  one  might  have 
for  the  taking,  but  which  to  make  salable  requires  all 
the  tricks  of  form  that  we  have  so  flamboyantly 


124  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

evolved  to  disguise  its  hackneyed  origin.  The 
second  class  contains  all  the  substances  of  existence 
that  only  those  that  feel  their  kinship  thereto  can 
transmute  into  literature.  All  the  style  and  form 
that  the  science  of  writing  can  teach  cannot  hope 
to  produce  one  breathing  story  unless  the  theme  is 
eloquent  with  this  kinship.  Such  Is  the  story  of 
genius — the  story  that  lives  and  endures.  Such  a 
story  may  or  may  not  have  mechanical  values;  it 
will  captivate  and  thrill;  ruffle  annd  soothe;  make 
and  destroy.  Such  a  story  will  be  found  to  have  a 
theme  not  chosen  with  an  eye  for  gallery  approval; 
not  even  because  the  writer  himself  approves  of  It. 
One  cannot  approve  or  disapprove  of  the  stuff  he 
is  made  of.  One  merely  accepts  it.  After  all  there 
is  only  one  theme — inexhaustible — out  of  which  gen- 
uine literature  has  always  been  and  always  will  be 
made,  perhaps  it  is  the  slm.ple  theme  of  Tagore's 
court  poet :  "The  theme  of  Krishna,  the  lover  god, 
and  Radha,  the  beloved,  the  Eternal  Man  and  the 
Eternal  Woman,  the  sorrow  that  comes  from  the 
beginning  of  time,  and  the  joy  without  end.'" 

2  "The  Victory,"  in  Hungry  Stones  and  Other  Stories. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Finale 

There  is  more  than  a  modicum  of  depression, 
then,  in  a  contemplative  sweep  of  the  literary  prod- 
uct we  are  instrumental  in  creating.  Even  the 
most  complacent  members  in  my  profession  must 
find  it  so.  For  one  thing,  the  very  lack  of  variety 
in  the  finished  product  we  so  painstakingly  cultivate 
must  occasionally  become  irksome,  if  nothing  more 
serious.  Analyzing  stories  by  a  hundred  different 
writers,  both  successful  and  would-be,  and  all  of 
these  stories  with  one  puny  soul  must  in  the  end 
become  a  very  tiresome  routine  indeed. 

It  is  true  that  we  are  not  masters  of  the  situation. 
Who  are  we  to  set  up  standards  and  direct  the  foot- 
steps of  the  young  toward  them?  We  are  but  the 
interpreters  of  existing  standards  and  the  formu- 
lators  and  expositors  of  ways  that  lead  to  the  meet- 
ing of  the  exaction  imposed  by  them.  But  if  an 
uneasy  thought  sometimes,  at  dusk,  buzzes  into  our 
incautious  ear  that  the  existing  standards  lead  to 
unregenerate  mediocrity,  should  we  not  pause  and 
ask  if  perpetuating  these  standards  is  for  the  good 
of  our  souls  or  even  for  the  work  we  love  (and  a 

125 


126  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

great  many  of  us  really  do  love  our  work!)  ?  Per- 
haps a  revision  of  our  texts — if  not  a  bonfire — 
might  result  in  fewer  stories  but  more  inspiring  ones. 
Perhaps  the  demolition  of  magazine  standards 
might  result  in  the  birth  of  literary  standards.  As 
it  is,  should  we  not  face  the  truth  that  all  the  mas- 
ters that  have  ever  manipulated  pen  or  typewriter 
have  disregarded  our  standards  and  set  up  new  ones 
of  their  own?  They  may  not  have  gone  to  the 
extent  of  a  Kipling  who  wrote  to  a  beginner  that 
"No  man's  advice  is  the  least  benefit  in  our  business, 
and  I  am  a  very  busy  man.  Keep  on  trying  until 
you  either  fail  or  succeed."  They  all  have  looked 
for  and  accepted  intelligent  advice  of  one  kind  or 
another — from  eniment  contemporaries  and  from 
those  that  had  preceded  them.  But  they  have  not 
slavishly  copied  and  imitated.  They  have  not  felt 
that  any  advice  had  the  power  of  divine  command- 
ment. No  real  artist  could  be  expected  to  create 
anything  in  the  environment  of  the  rubrics  and  in- 
hibitions with  which  we  have  surrounded  him. 

All  the  blame  that  can  be  heaped  upon  the  public 
and  our  magazine  editors  does  not  absolve  the  liter- 
ary clergy  from  the  share  of  harm  they  have  contri- 
buted to  the  existing  state  of  the  American  short 
story.  The  cheapest  form  of  advertising  and  the 
most  erudite  and  conscientious  of  our  textbooks 
combine  in  the  creation  of  a  peculiar  psychology  that 
a  story  is  some  concoction  that  any  one  might  learn 


FINALE  127 

to  make  up  by  mere  exertion.  Here  Is  a  typical 
advertisement  appearing  on  the  back  page  of  a  cur- 
rent magazine: 

HOW  I  MADE  $350.00  ON  ONE  SHORT  STORY 
And  How  I  Learned  To  Write,  In  Only  a  Few 
Evenings,   Stories  That  Actually   Sell   Themselves. 

Then  follows  a  full-page  testimony  of  some  one  who 
has  made  a  great  success  of  story-wrlting  by  spend- 
ing the  small  sum  of  $5  on  the  course  advertised. 
The  course  Itself  was  prepared  by  a  leading  pro- 
fessor in  a  leading  eastern  university  and  whose 
name  is  well-known  in  the  literary  world.  And 
almost  every  important  textbook  on  the  subject 
abounds  in  statements  such  as  the  following  taken 
from  one  of  the  most  intelligent  works:  "the  events 
which  go  to  make  up  a  fictional  plot  are  artificially 
arranged  so  as  to  bring  about  a  particular  result,"^ 
besprinkled  with  numerous  analogies  to  the  various 
trades  and  professions  and  how  long  it  takes  for 
the  average  apprentice  to  become  an  accomplished 
artizan.  The  psychology  of  tricks  and  twists  and 
points  is  foisted  upon  the  writer,  the  reader,  the 
editor.  By  constant  repetition  we  ourselves  begin 
to  acquire  it,  if  we  had  It  not  when  we  started.  .  .  . 
And  yet  this  short  volume  is  not  wholly  pessi- 
mistic. I  would  not  want  to  leave  that  impression. 
For  as  already  stated  there  have  always  been  writers 
with  a  real  touch  of  divine  afflatus  who  have  never 

3  Writing  the  Short  Story,  by  J.  Berg  Esenwein,  A.M.,  Lit.D. 


128  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

paid  any  attention  either  to  our  psychology  or  to 
our  tricks,  or  to  our  inhibitions.  "Every  fine  artist 
In  American  fiction  will  be  seen  to  have  discarded 
both  the  technical  and  moral  pattern  of  the  maga- 
zine tradition  and  to  have  developed  one  of  his 
own."*  And  the  number  of  these  heretics  is  grow- 
ing— much  faster  than  some  of  us  are  aware. 
They  suffer  obscurity  and  often  poverty  as  all  great 
heretics  always  have  suffered,  but  they  have  the  for- 
titude of  their  calling.  Let  us  listen  to  the  confes- 
sion of  one  of  them: 


"...  However,  you  know  that  the  short-story  form  has  become 
among  us  very  much  what  I  call  corrupt.  Publishers  of  short 
stories  sought  what  they  called  the  story  with  a  kick  in  it.  Plots 
for  short  stories  were  found  and  about  these  plots  our  writers 
sought  to  hang  a  semblance  of  reality  to  life.  The  plot,  how- 
ever, being  uppermost  in  the  writers'  minds,  what  we  got  was  a 
snappy,  entertaining,  artificial  thing,  forgotten  completely  an 
hour  after  it  was  read. 

"Perhaps  because  of  a  native  laziness,  I  found  myself  unable 
to  think  up  plots.  To  try  to  do  so  bored  me  unspeakably.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  were  all  about  me  human  beings  living 
their  lives  and  in  the  process  of  doing  so  creating  drama.  .  .  . 

"I  have  tried  to  clutch  at  it  and  reproduce  in  writing  some  of 
that  drama.  . . ."  ^ 


When  the  problem  involved  Is  what  to  tell,  the 
sharpening  of  the  faculty  of  seeing  what  Is  worth 
while,  the  problem  of  how  to  tell  becomes  of  second- 
ary Importance.  In  fact  the  same  literary  heretic 
believes  that  "An  Impulse  needs  but  be  strong 
enough  to  break  through  the  lack  of  technical  train- 


*  Editorial  Reviewer  in  The  Nation. 

^  Sherwood  Anderson  in  an  interview  for  Brentano's  Book  Chat. 


FINALE  •  129 

ing.  .  .    technical   training  might  well   destroy  the 
impulse.     ... 

Along  with  the  author  of  "WInesburg,  Ohio," 
and  "The  Triumph  of  the  Egg,"  there  are  a  host  of 
other  writers  freshly  reacting  to  life  and  honestly 
striving  to  embody  their  reactions  Into  stories.  It  is 
strange  to  us,  accustomed  as  we  are  to  clever  artifici- 
ality, it  is  even  grotesque — this  simplicity,  natural- 
ness, and  daring,  but  It  marks  the  birth  of  the  Amer- 
ican short  story — that  colorful  short  form  which  is 
destined  to  become  the  most  perfect  artistic  expres- 
sion of  our  national  life.  After  all,  to  the  true  artist 
the  public  is  no  problem,  It  being  composed  primarily 
of  himself  alone.  As  Sherwood  Anderson  expressed 
it  in  another  passage  of  the  interview  quoted  above : 
"I  would  like  a  little  to  understand  myself  In  this 
mixup,  and  I  am  writing  with  that  end  in  view." 
The  curse  of  catering  to  the  public  has  been  a  fal- 
lacy as  great  as  that  of  our  technique;  we  have 
assumed  that  fiction  is  made  to  order  for  a  public, 
just  as  we  have  taught  that  technique  comes  first 
and  story  substance  next.  The  great  writers  have 
all  come  before  their  public  and  have  had  to  wait 
for  the  public  to  catch  up  with  them,  but  if  they 
hadn't  come  first  the  public  would  never  have  caught 
up.  We  In  America  have  always  striven  to  give  the 
public  what  it  has  wanted,  but  even  In  America  the 


^  Sherwood  Anderson  advertising  an  exhibition  of  his  paintingi 
in  the  Little  Revie<w. 


130  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

time  is  fast  coming  when  the  gracious  public  will 
be  inquiring  what  stories  our  potent  writers  have  to 
tell.  But  not  until  our  writers  realize  fully  that 
"The  public  is  composed  of  numerous  groups  cry- 
ing out:  Console  me,  amuse  me,  sadden  me,  touch 
me,  make  me  dream,  laugh,  shudder,  weep,  think. 
But  the  fine  spirit  says  to  the  artist:  Make  some- 
thing beautiful  in  the  form  that  suits  you,  according 
to  your  personal  temperament."^  This  fine  spirit 
is  now  becoming  evident;  it  is  working  its  way  to 
the  surface. 

In  this  period  of  awakening,  of  the  real  birth  of 
American  literature,  the  genuine  educator,  always 
an  open-minded  student,  can  do  no  better  than  re- 
valuate  all  his  acceptances,  all  his  hardened  dog- 
mas, all  his  hereditary  literary  and  educational 
truths.  If  he  is  to  help  the  confused  multitude, 
baffled  by  a  sudden  consciousness  of  the  phenomena 
of  existence,  to  literary  self-expression,  he  must  first 
realize  that  no  formulas  are  of  any  avail  in  the 
crises  of  life  and  therefore  are  of  no  avail  in  litera- 
ture, the  artistic  emanation  or  transmutation  of  life. 
He  must  stimulate  thought  and  independence  of 
thought — even  to  the  point  of  experimentation — 
for  in  such  ways  have  all  great  contributions  to  the 
world's  cultural  treasury  been  made.  He  must 
cultivate  a  genuine  love  of  literature  rather  than  of 
its  usual  incentive,  the  emoluments  involved,  what- 

"^  Guy  de  Maupassant,  in  his  preface  to  Pierre  et  Jean. 


FINALE  131 

ever  they  be,  and  a  critical  appreciation  of  literary 
values.  Thus  he  may  become  a  positive  force  in 
the  chariot  of  our  literary  progress — a  leader,  a 
driver,  a  discoverer. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Effect 

Self-flattery  Is  indigenous  to  man.  We  like  to 
flatter  ourselves  that  our  musings  produce  a  desir- 
able effect  but  we  do  not  often  know  the  complexion 
of  this  effect.  What,  for  instance,  shall  it  be  in  the 
case  of  serious-minded  men  and  women  interested 
in  creating  short  stories  and  in  the  aspect  of  our  lit- 
erary field  generally  who  have  read  sympathetically 
the  preceding  pages?  If  books  are  stimuli  what 
shall  this  particular  reaction  be? 

A  few  suggestions  may  not  be  amiss.  They  are 
in  a  measure  a  recapitulation  of  the  thoughts  ex- 
pressed, but  I  like  to  think  of  them  as  formulated 
by  my  ideal  reader  as  his  more  or  less  conscious 
artistic  credo : 

1.  I  believe  that  the  short  story  is  first  of  all  a 
form  of  literature,  not  merely  an  article  of  manu- 
facture. 

2.  Literature  is  a  form  of  self-expression.  I 
am  a  living  entity,  sensitive  to  the  play  and  interplay 
of  forces  in  and  all  about  me.  Life  in  the  form  of 
man,  of  institutions,  of  passions  and  ideas  affects 
me   and   I   would    reproduce    and    interpret   it.     I 

132 


EFFECT  133 

would  clarify  it  to  myself;  I  would  create  for  the 
love  of  creating,  for  the  beauty  of  It,  for  the  grati- 
fication of  the  creative  urge  within  me. 

3.  I  recognize  no  plots  that  are  not  derived 
from  the  life  which  I  know,  which  is  in  and  about 
me;  nor  any  characters  which  are  not  derived  from 
and  tested  by  that  life. 

4.  In  all  my  work  I  have  a  desire  to  be  truth- 
ful, rather  than  merely  clever;  simple  rather  than 
pretentious;  natural  rather  than  surprising.  I 
would  voice  no  thought  nor  emotion  which  is  alien 
to  my  mind  and  temperament. 

5.  The  genuineness  of  a  view  or  an  emotion  Is 
its  justification.  Truth  and  spontaniety  are  more 
to  me  than  commercial  artifice  and  success.  There 
Is  no  shame  In  failure  except  In  so  far  as  It  Implies 
a  departure  from  standards  of  artistic  honesty. 

6.  I  recognize  no  taboos.  Every  phase  of  life 
is  a  worthy  theme;  every  experience  known  to  man 
is  a  worthy  plot.  Things  which  have  Interested  me 
have  interested  other  people  and  I  seek  to  com- 
municate my  personal  vision  to  the  world.  I  recog- 
nize no  valid  reason  for  withholding  any  part  of 
my  vision  merely  because  it  may  prove  unpleasant, 
uncustomary  or  unprofitable  to  some  reader.  I  do 
not  force  him  to  read  my  work. 

7.  Nor  do  I  recognize  that  I  have  any  right, 
for  any  reason  whatsoever,  to  color  the  stuff  of  life, 
the  reality  of  which  I  write.     The  measure  of  my 


134  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

success  is  the  measure  in  which  I  can  make  my  real- 
ity the  reality  of  those  who  would  read  me. 

8.  The  standard  of  my  opinions  and  emotions 
Is  contained  within  me.  I  refuse  to  modify  them, 
to  render  them  less  objectionable,  or  more  Innocu- 
ous, or  more  in  conformity  with  the  standard  of  the 
moving  pictures  or  the  specifications  of  any  editor, 
critic,  teacher  or  good  friend. 

9.  I  recognize  no  subject  which  is  rooted  In  life 
as  either  moral  or  Immoral.  Every  phase  of  exist- 
ence is  a  legitimate  theme  for  the  artist,  and  Its 
morality  or  Immorality  Is  a  matter  of  the  reader's 
own  Interpretation. 

10.  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  either  pessimistic  or 
optimistic.  My  moods  and  Ideas  are  my  own  and 
win  not  be  changed  to  suit  the  buyer. 

11.  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  either  radical  or 
conservative,  depressive  or  ^'exhilarating,"  religious 
or  agnostic,  constructive  or  destructive.  The  fear- 
less presentation  of  one's  honest  views  Is  a  virtue 
in  itself. 

12.  I  have  no  fear  of  displeasing  ony  one,  of  dis- 
pleasing even  a  majority  of  readers,  editors,  critics, 
citizens.  I  have  faith  that  there  Is  always  a  fear- 
less minority  willing  to  hear  an  honest  word;  that 
there  are  always  some  avenues  for  the  transmission 
of  the  independent  vision.  Frequently  this  minor- 
ity in  time  grows  to  a  majority — and  another 
rebellious  minority  takes  its  place. 


EFFECT  135 

13.  I  believe  that  all  technique  is  but  a  means 
toward  effective  expression.  No  tricks  are  of  any 
value  in  themselves.  No  puzzles  or  jugglings  with 
life's  experiences  are  of  any  avail,  and  no  technique 
is  worthy  of  art  except  in  so  far  as  it  furthers  clari- 
fication and  artistic  presentation  of  my  message. 

14.  I  believe  that  all  the  instruction  I  can  get 
can  only  be  in  the  way  of  developing  facility  of  ex- 
pression. No  teacher  or  textbook  can  teach  me  the 
stuff  out  of  which  literature  is  made. 

15.  I  believe  that  style  is  "of  the  man  himself," 
that  it  comes  from  within,  that  no  amount  of  imita- 
tion of  O.  Henry  can  give  me  O.  Henry's  clever- 
ness, and  that  no  amount  of  style,  even  my  own, 
can  cover  a  lack  of  substance. 

16.  There  is  only  one  ending  that  my  story  can 
have.  It  may  be  happy  or  unhappy  or  merely 
logical.  Every  problem  imposes  its  own  solution. 
I  can  dictate  no  denouement,  for  the  characters  in- 
volved work  out  their  own  destiny  acceptable  to 
them  or  to  the  inevitability  of  their  problem. 

17.  I  believe  that  if  I  am  myself  I  am  original. 
My  life  is  different  from  the  life  of  any  one  else. 
Manufacturing  startling  or  spectacular  originality  is 
impossible.  There  is  only  one  theme  at  bottom  of 
all  stories  and  that  is  Life.  It  is  only  the  way  I 
look  at  it  which  you  do  not  know. 

18.  Finally  I  believe  that  each  artist  after  all 
works  in  his  own  way.     My  way  may  be  as  good 


136  SHORT  STORY-WRITING 

as  the  ways  of  other  writers  and  will  surely  suit 
my  moods  and  my  thoughts  better.  Each  of  us  in 
his  own  way  merely  tries  to  state  and  to  clarify  the 
tragedy  and  comedy,  the  ugliness  and  the  beauty  of 
the  things  he  knows  and  lives  and  feels. 

19.  The  short  story  is  but  another  medium  for 
the  expression  of  my  reaction  to  the  business  of  liv- 
ing.    I  refuse  to  be  a  clown  entertaining  the  gallery. 

20.  If  I  depart  from  this  credo  and  write  what 
commercial  policy  may  dictate  rather  than  my  artis- 
tic self  I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  acknowledge  the  in- 
ferior character  of  the  product  rather  than  label  it 
as  literature.  My  conscience  is  no  coward,  even  in 
defeat. 

The  End 


INDEX 


Addison,    Joseph,    115. 

Ade,    George,    9. 

Admirable   Crichton,    The,  77. 

Aeschylus,    109. 

American    Magazine,    The,    70, 

71. 
Anderson,  Sherwood,  16,  17,  79, 

81,     128,     129;      The     Other 

Woman,   81. 
Atheist's    Mass,    An,    85,    86. 
Balzac,     Honore,     de,     85,     86, 

118;    An   Atheist's   Mass,   85, 

86. 
Barnes,  Djuna,   17. 
Barrie,  J.  M.,  77. 
Bates,  Arlo,  2. 
Beyond  the  Horizon,  64. 
Bierce,  Ambrose,  9. 
Brandes,    Georg,    87. 
Brooks,  Van  Wyck,  73. 
Brown,  Alice,  17. 
Butler,    Ellis    Parker,    8. 
Cabell,   James   Branch,    17,   79; 

The  Wedding  Jest,  111. 
Clay,   Bertha   M.,   79. 
Chambers,  Robert  W.,  9. 
Chatterton,  Thomas,  6. 
Chekhov,  Anton,  13,  26,  74,  99; 

Ward  No.  6,  33. 
Chester,    George   Randolph,    33. 
Chwang-Tse,  22,  23. 
Cohen,  Octavus  Roy,   16. 
Conrad,    Joseph,    27,    103,    119; 


Youth,  27,  110. 
Crane,  Frank,  34,  71,  87. 
D'Annunzio,   Gabrielle,   74. 
Davis,  Richard  Harding,  33. 
Daudet,   Alphonse,    78. 
Dial,  The,  69. 
Dickens,  Charles,  51,  118. 
Dostoyevski,  Fyodor,  74,  116. 
Dreiser,    Theodore,    17,    34,    79, 

82;    The  Lost  Phoebe,  34. 
Edwards,  Jonathan,   85. 
Emerson,  Ralph   Waldo,   62. 
Esenwein,   J.   Berg,    127;    Writ- 
ing   the    Photoplay,    58,    90; 

Writing  the  Short  Story,   127. 
Fall    of    the    House    of    Usher, 

The,  14,  15. 
Flaubert,  Gustave,  86;  Madame 

B ovary,  86. 
Four  Million,   The,   35,   36,   37, 

38,  39,  40. 
Frank,   Waldo,   8,    17. 
Freeman,  Mary  E.  Wilkins,  33, 

110;    The  Revolt   of  Mother, 

33,  110,  111. 
Gerould,    Katharine    Fullerton, 

44. 
Glaspell,    Susan,    17. 
Gorki,     Maxim,     38,     74;     Her 

Lover,    38. 
Gourmont,  Remy  de,   120,   121; 

Le    Probleme    du    Style,    120, 

121. 


137 


138 


INDEX 


Griffith,  David  Wark,  105,  106. 
Hall,    Holworthy,    16. 
Hamsun,  Knut,   5. 
Hardy,   Thomas,   64. 
Harper's    Magazine,    69. 
Harte,  Bret,   103. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  65. 
Hearn,  Lafcadio,   11. 
Hecht,  Ben,   17. 
Her  Lover,  38. 
Hergesheimer,     Joseph,     5,     8; 

Java   Head,   23. 
Howells,     William     Dean,     15; 

Great       Modern       American 

Stories,   34. 
Hugo,    Victor,    119. 
Hungry  Hearts,  34. 
Hurst,   Fannie,   5. 
In  the  Moonlight,  33,  HI. 
Irving,  Washington,   116. 
James,   Henry,   116. 
Java   Head,   23. 
Jessup,  Alexander,  44. 
John  Ferguson,   64. 
Johnston,  William,  35,  41,  42. 
Kelland,     Clarence     Budington, 

33. 
Kipling,    Rudyard,    4,    26,    103, 

126;       Without      Benefit      of 

Clergy,   33. 
Kling,  Joseph,  32. 
Kuprin,  Ivan,  118. 
Lawrence,   D.   H.,   74. 
Leeds,  Arthur,   56. 
Lewisohn,  Ludwig,  23,  24. 
Literary    Digest,    The,    105. 
Little  Revieiv,   The,   16,   69,   81. 
London,  Jack,  4,  7,  8,  9,  41,  103, 

114,    115,    118;    Martin   Eden, 

4. 
Lost  Phoebe,   The,  34. 


McCardell,  Roy  L.,  55. 

Macdonald,   George,   116. 

Madame  Bovary,  86. 

Maeterlink,   Maurice,  74. 

Malthus,    114. 

Marden,  Orison  Swett,  34. 

Markheim,    14,    15. 

Martin  Eden,  4. 

Masefield,   John,  4. 

Mason,  Walt,   34. 

Mather,   Cotton,  85. 

Matthews,  Brander,  33. 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  14,  15,  26, 
33,  103,  109,  111,  130;  Soli- 
tude, 14,  15 ;  In  the  Moon- 
light,   33,    111. 

Mencken,   H.   L.,  47. 

Nation,   The,  24,   112,    113,    128. 

Nevi'  Success,  The,  69. 

O'Brien,  Edward  J.,  15;  Best 
Short  Stories  of  1920,  81,  97; 
Best  Short  Stories  of  1919, 
97. 

O.  Henry,  9,  22,  26,  29,  30,  31, 
32,  35,  41,  42,  43,  44,  45,  46, 
60,  116,  135;  The  Four  Mil- 
lion, 35,  36,  37,  38,  39,  40. 

Our  America,  8. 

Our  Short  Story  Writers,  9,  39. 

Pagan,   The,  16,   32. 

Passing  of  King  Arthur,  The,  6. 

Patee,   Fred  Lewis,  44. 

People's  Favorite  Magazine,  87. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  14,  15,  26, 
42,  74,  102,  116;  The  Fall 
of  the  House  of  Usher,  14,  15. 

Pollock,  Channing,  51. 

Porter,  William  Sidney  (See 
"O.    Henry"). 

Probleme  du  Style,  Le,   121, 


INDEX 


139 


Revolt  of  Mother,  The,  33,  110, 

111. 
Rinehart,  Mary  Roberts,  33. 
Robbins,  E.  M.,  54. 
Sandburg,   Carl,    118. 
Sapho,  78. 
Saturday    Evening    Post,    The, 

69,  71. 
Seven   Arts,    The,   7,   84-. 
Shakespeare,   60,    116. 
Smart  Set,   The,  69. 
Solitude,  14,  15. 
Spingarn,   Joel   Elias,   83. 
Steele,   Richard,    115. 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  14,  26; 

Markheim,    14,    15. 
Tagore,  Rabindranath,  124. 
Tatler,  The,  115. 
Times,   The  Neiv   York,  45. 
Triumph  of  the  Egg,  The,  129. 


Twain,    Mark,    7,   41. 
Van   Doren,   Carl,    112,    113. 
Villon,   Frangois,   6. 
Walter,  Eugene,  60. 
Ward   No.   6,    33. 
Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  120. 
Wedding  Jest,   The,   HI. 
Wells,  H.  G.,  99. 
Whitman,   Walt,    82,   99. 
Williams,  Blanche  Colton,  9,  39. 
Winesburg,  Ohio,  129. 
Without   Benefit   of   Clergy,   33. 
Witwer,   H.   C,   8,   65. 
Writer's  Monthly,   The,  56,  71. 
Writing   the  Photoplay,   58,   90. 
Writing    the    Short    Story,    127. 
Yezierska,    Anzia,    34;    Hungry 

Hearts,   34. 
Youth,  27,   110. 
Zola,    Emile,    74. 


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